


Overlooked

by tubbyk



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-04-17 05:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14181690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tubbyk/pseuds/tubbyk
Summary: Aramis has been missing for four days. A body has been found.





	1. A Body

As positive as it was sometimes, being overlooked in a fight wasn't a deliberately manufactured consequence of Aramis' countenance. It was more to do with luck regarding the sheer inability of strangers to recognise danger and skill beneath looks and charisma. 

New enemies saw Porthos lumbering towards them and whether he was scowling or grinning they immediately marked him as dangerous. A mountainous beast is never ignored. 

D’Artagnan, with his youthful exuberance for life, his wiry whip-cord body always alert and ready, he could be underestimated, but never disregarded. 

For himself, Athos knew his reserve always drew attention. Any experienced soldier knew to pay particular attention to the quiet menace, the one standing silent and still, waiting to strike, not posturing or flapping in the melee. His composure was his downfall and bought no anonymity in a fight. 

But adversaries unaware of Aramis’ reputation would see the perfectly groomed moustache, the care with which he dressed, the smooth calm deportment of a posing artist’s muse, and nearly always dismiss or relegate the potential danger he presented. That lapse of judgement had cost many a man his life. 

Athos looked past Porthos and d’Artagnan to the pale, bloodied figure lying silent and unresponsive despite all their urgings to be otherwise. Without his poise and pose, minus his leather and hat and the blue sash that served little purpose except vanity, Aramis still managed to look composed, serene in repose. Only his hair lay wild and unkempt, dark curls looking on the verge of doing something unruly, contrasting alarmingly against his white shoulders and the stark deep crimson seeping through the rough bandages held tight against his chest and forehead. 

Contrast and contradiction were themes in Aramis’ life. Deceptively passive, with a mood of lazy ease, he presented a convivial, welcoming persona, highlighted by a self-assurance and vanity which served to amuse rather than repel his friends. But they bore witness to the intensity of his passions, the self-righteous anger inside him which could erupt so violently when stirred. Reckless trysts and lust stood side by side with pious outpourings and self-absolution. 

Most frustratingly, when it came to keeping things hidden, Athos found at least an equal in Aramis. His judiciousness with the truth continued to be a cause for concern. Secrets and lies were the terms thrown at Aramis by his friends. Necessary confidences and discretion was how Aramis described it. 

There was never common ground. Porthos especially would rage at his friend when cornered with evidence of a falsehood, and Aramis would remain apologetic but completely unrepentant, sorry only to have been caught out and having inadvertently involved his friends in the matter. 

But for all of his failings, Aramis remained very much loved by all, as witnessed by the grief felt by his closest friends now bent over his ailing form, and the rest of the musketeers and sundry who Athos could hear milling outside Treville’s door, anxiously awaiting news. Aramis’ positive air had been badly missed in the garrison in the four days when he could not be found. Even the most heathen among the soldiers would have found comfort and hope in his spiritual offerings as they sat each night awaiting news as each search party returned with not even a skerrick of information. The absence of his keen eye and musket tracking unerringly at anyone posing a danger made all seem more vulnerable. And had it been anyone else injured so badly it would have been Aramis tending to them while waiting on the doctor’s arrival.

Porthos felt the loss most of all. It was he who ran all the way from the garrison as word came in of a man with a musketeer’s hat and long blue sash found muddied and bloodied down on the sludgy banks of the Seine. “A body’s been found. Think it’s that friend of yours what went missin’,” was how the news was presented by the grubby boy as he eagerly held out his hand for a reward. 

A body. 

No two words could have had a more devastating impact, but still they ran, rode, sprang into action, focussing all their attentions on getting to Aramis … a body ... _his body _…. relief and hope overriding any images of cadavers.__

____

____

Hope did seem misplaced as they rushed down to the river and a group of children pointed to a body lying half buried in mud and muck, Porthos yelling and jumping past men who clambered more carefully down over the sludge, fishing pots and debris that littered the bank. 

It was Porthos’ anguished cry of denial as he knelt by the body, sinking into the grime, repeating Aramis’ name over and over as he cradled his head in his hands, forehead to forehead, which still chilled Athos to his core. The devastated cry affected everyone, and resigned them to Aramis’ fate, even those who couldn’t see the gored wounds on the musketeer’s chest.

But medical practitioners luckily take more care than to diagnose from afar based on the grief of others and the smartly dressed man who gingerly picked his way across the mud then gently pushed Porthos aside to examine Aramis announced after a moment with some misplaced amusement that perhaps our energies would be better placed helping our friend to shelter so he could get some treatment for his wounds. 

Fifty hands wrung in grief now rushed forward to help, but it was Porthos who lifted and carried his friend up to the street, only relinquishing Aramis when the practicality of using a cart to transport him back to the garrison became obvious. Tears, hope, relief and anguish all travelled in that cart with three musketeers and Aramis’ battered – but alive - body. 

Now they all listened for some response, either from Aramis or outside in the courtyard to signal the arrival of the doctor. They had all tended Aramis as best they could, they had prayed and pleaded and pledged and offered threats to any higher entity willing to listen and waiting was now all they could do. 

A thousand questions remained but when the garrison doctor was finally rushed through the doorway and began to assess his patient with doubtful murmurs and unholy exclamations Treville ordered everyone outside, despite their protestations. 

“Enough! We can do no more. Let the practitioner do his best undisturbed by fear and anguish.” Treville looked at the faces around him and softened his tone. “He is alive. Keep that foremost in your hearts while you find some peace and rest. I will call you the moment the doctor brings us news.” 

D’Artagnan and Porthos had a firm hand on their shoulders guiding them away from Treville’s quarters as he spoke and despite heartfelt appeals could not convince him to allow them any further access to Aramis until his condition was known. 

Athos followed them out into the courtyard, unsure about anyone’s ability to find either peace or rest until the life of Aramis was deemed to be out of danger.


	2. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Musketeers wait. Aramis struggles to heal. Porthos makes a promise. ___

CHAPTER 2 – 

Athos once again tried to turn on his side to find a soft spot in the rigid wooden chair but comfort eluded him as successfully as sleep. He looked across at Porthos, who had the benefit of two blankets beneath him and a chair with slightly more in the way of padding. Two nights’ vigil added to three nights’ searching and the combined toll of worry had finally gifted him with slumber. 

They all felt guilty that they hadn’t been searching for all four nights since he went missing, but when Aramis hadn’t shown up at the inn it was shrugged off as not unusual and the group simply speculated animatedly on which mistress was reaping the benefits of their friend’s ardent, amorous attentions. 

Sitting forward with a sigh, Athos stared down at the patient lying on the bench between their chairs. Aramis still had a sickly pallor, he had not woken, nor barely stirred bar for feverous distress. Cuts, gouges, slices, skin split from beatings, it had all become shockingly apparent after the physician had removed the clothing and properly cleaned Aramis up. Only today were the wounds beginning to look slightly less fearsome, apart from the chest wound which the physician kept bandaged and had not deemed to show them. The bruises however were now blooming in a riotous display of color. 

There were so many of them. 

All the Musketeers were well versed in bruises. A giant well-placed bruise with a multitude of colors could earn you much mirth if you were game enough to show it to your peers. A swollen black eye such as the one Aramis sported also sometimes warranted a free ale, such was the entertainment value to the garrison.

But there was nothing entertaining about what had been done to their friend. It wasn’t a casual scrum, a street fight with a few well-placed kicks and hits. This was systematic and had been done over much of the four days that Aramis was missing, of that Athos was sure. 

His wrist was broken, although thankfully it wasn’t the hand he used to shoot. Ribs certainly had been cracked, a shoulder dislocated and from the size of Aramis’ left knee, Athos was fairly sure he was not going to be racing through the streets of Paris any time soon. 

But he was alive. Alive and home. 

Talk of Aramis was no longer done in hushed tones, indeed the mood of the garrison lifted with each update from the doctor. Queries about his health were now made with the tone of optimism, reassurances were given, stories were told about the times when Aramis escaped many and various hopeless situations. Plans were made for his return to garrison duties and the men had already volunteered a battle roster to fight him back to full fitness. 

It was all very optimistic, but those who had sat with Aramis these past few days knew it would be a long road to recovery. 

“You had a visitor tonight,” Athos told him quietly as he rearranged the thin blanket covering his chest. “She came last night too after your entourage of minders had retired. She wept then kissed you here and here,” he said, gently touching the back of his hand twice against pale cheekbones, “and possibly lingered on your lips for an inordinately long time but it wouldn’t have been gentlemanly for myself or Porthos to have observed that so it’s purely vile conjecture.” 

Unobserved as he was, Athos allowed himself a small smile at Aramis then whispered in his ear, “Your son is safe and she prays for you.”

A grunt signalled Porthos waking. 

“What’s happened? Athos? Is he talking?”

“No, only being talked to. I was telling our friend of the steady procession of hansom cabs bringing a wide array of Paris’ ladies to our door to give him their personal best wishes for his speedy recovery.”

“Ah, yes. The sheer number of them surpassed all my expectations and I knew to expect a lot!”

“I thought half of Paris would turn up but it turns out our busy boy has courted half of France.” 

“And he’ll enamour the other half very, very soon.”

The unlikelihood of that timeframe struck home. 

Porthos looked from Aramis to Athos, shaking his head. “What happened to him? He left here to go to the inn, didn’t arrive, then… nothing until we found him lying by the river. We’ve all been out there, searching the banks, asking questions, and there’s no clues.”

“Mugging?” Athos suggested. 

“Not Aramis. He was going to the inn sober and straight from training, not leaving it, full of ale and off his guard. Anyway, with all of Paris to choose from, who would target a Musketeer to rob?”

“True. We’re not exactly known for being flush with spare gold coins.”

“So, a grudge?” 

“Jealous lover?”

“Enraged husband?”

“Retaliation from someone he has fought?”

“Too many options, all of them possible.” Porthos clasped Aramis’ hand and sighed. “My friend, we need you to wake up to enlighten us. This is yet another mystery of yours that we cannot solve without your help.”

Porthos got his wish not a few hours later. D’Artagnan had returned from a fruitless search, finding no more than his comrades about Aramis’ disappearance. They were all standing by the door, discussing who would stay on watch for the day when suddenly Athos cried out and shifted swiftly to the side of the bed. 

“Aramis! My friend, you are back with us.”

“You had us so worried.”

“Brother, at last!” Smiling broadly, Porthos grabbed his hand and squeezed it. 

They all waited. 

Aramis had opened his one good eye and was trying to focus, blinking slowly. He looked not at his friends, but directly up at the old timber ceiling. He didn’t squeeze Porthos’ hand back in return. He didn’t try to move. 

“Aramis?” Athos waited then looked around the bed at his companions, concerned. 

“What …” Aramis tried to say before his raspy speech turned into painful coughing. Porthos cradled his head and helped him sip some water then soothed him back down. Aramis tried again, croaking, “What day is it?”

“It’s Tuesday,” said Athos, “You were lost to us for four days and have been lying here causing us much worry and a severe lack of sleep for a further two.”

“Six days,” murmured Aramis after some time struggling to calculate. He murmured nonsense then became increasingly distressed and tried to pull his hand out of Porthos’ grip.

“Shh, it’s okay. Stay calm,” frowned d'Artagnan, but Aramis began to struggle and cry out and attempt to rise, which was of course not going to happen. If the Musketeers didn’t hold him down the pain from his wounds would lay him flat. A combination of the two made him howl with agony as he struggled against strong hands and broken bones and injuries flaring up and taking the opportunity to introduce themselves to him. 

The doctor was quickly summoned and helped force a potion past Aramis’ lips to calm him. As it was, the struggle and the pain had rendered him unconscious again. 

“What was that?” cried out Porthos, breathing more heavily from alarm than the one-sided tussle. “I was expecting a lot of things when he woke up, but fighting us? I don’t understand.” 

“He’s ill,” Athos murmured.

“No, we’ve seen him ill plenty of times before. That wasn’t right. Something’s going on.”

“He has a fever and ….” Athos cut off his words as the doctor lifted the bandage from Aramis’ chest wound. It was the first time any of them had properly seen it, raw, deep and wide open on his naked chest and it silenced all of them. 

“Good god.” Treville had just entered the room and stood, transfixed, as the physician tried to clean up the enormous wound which had reopened. “That’s not a normal laceration. Is it infected?”

The doctor didn’t look up. He frowned and kept tending his patient but eventually spoke. “It’s a bullet wound. And a laceration. And at some point a blade has been worked into the wound and turned repeatedly to open up it up more. And my guess is that the wound has been beaten and punched repeatedly to add to the torture. All this has been done with careful measure to stop just short of actually killing your friend.” He finally patted the fresh bandage down then looked up at them and made a face, macabrely impressed. “Torture. Very, very, skilful torture. And there are other wounds which I think your friend would not like me to tend to with an audience present. The bruises you see are nothing compared to the ones you can’t. ”

The horror truly struck home. 

“Get out,” scowled Treville and the doctor did, with speed, realising the hurt his words had caused. 

D’Artagnan knelt beside the bed and muttered what few words of prayer he knew. 

Athos watched, considered, then turned to rest his forehead against the wall, retreating to his own private contemplation. 

Porthos returned to his place beside Aramis. He lifted his friend’s hand and kissed it as a sign of forgiveness for pushing him away. Clearing his throat he announced to the room in a strong voice, “He’s back with us now. He’s here. He’s alive. Whatever else we saw or heard in this room today our focus has to be on helping Aramis heal. That’s all that matters.” 

Everyone looked up from their thoughts and nodded, murmuring agreement. 

Porthos looked at them one by one, locking in their promise. Then he rose, brushed his hand fondly over Aramis’ forehead and strode to the door. He paused. 

“Once he’s healed then we’re going to find whoever did this and I will slaughter them slowly, painfully and without mercy. Their friends will not be praying at their bedside because they will not be able to find any parts of their body left intact.”

The door barely survived the impact as it slammed shut behind him.


	3. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh dear. ___

A day later Athos watched Porthos once again exit Aramis’ room and test the door hinges as he pulled it shut heavily behind him. The big man exhaled and looked skyward as if imploring the god that Aramis talked to so much to let him in on the conversation. Gaze lowered, he spotted Athos and d'Artagnan sitting at their table and walked wearily over. 

“Hard work?” 

Porthos gave d'Artagnan a knowing look and grimaced. “The hardest. He won’t look at me, won’t talk to me, and I know sometimes – like just now - he’s awake but is pretending not to be.” 

Athos shrugged. “He’s hurt.”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one who hurt him.”

“None of us was, but for whatever reason Aramis doesn’t feel able to speak to us. His fever might be subsiding but his strange mood is increasing in pitch. The only thing he’ll ask is the day and time.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “Repeatedly. But when I ask him why he needs to know and what is about to happen he shuts me out.”

“He tried to sit up this morning,” observed Athos. “It didn’t end well and his injuries stopped him before I had to, but he was very determined to get going. And I do mean get going, not just get up. Aramis has somewhere he wants to be.”

They were pondering that thought when a young trainee stopped by the table, clearing his throat and waiting patiently to be acknowledged by his seniors. 

“What is it Andre?” 

“Sir, I am to go out on patrol and was told to ask questions at the inn. Regarding Monsieur Aramis. To make myself inconspicuous and to fit in there. See if I can find out anything.”

They all knew what he was asking for but had no intention of making it easy for him. 

The poor lad was sweating now. “It’s … well, it’s an ale house. With ale,” he added, as if they might not guess. “Ale costs money and I’m only an apprentice. This is like a regular mission, but with added costs. Captain Treville usually gives me something but with him in there minding Monsieur Aramis and all, I was wondering ….” He trailed off, finally tongue-tied into silence.

D’artagnan cracked first, breaking into a grin much to the censure of his friends, who could have kept up the game for much longer. He handed the lad a small pouch of coins. 

“Certain musketeers are mean and horrible people. Ignore them. And here, take my blade, it’s sharper than yours. Now go and be careful,” he added. 

“You’re too soft,” chuckled Porthos. “The Captain made me wait for days before handing over coin for my first mission. Thought I’d have to start pickpocketing again to pay my way.”

Athos was about to add his own tale when he straightened, lowering his cup at Treville’s dark expression as he marched towards them. 

“All of you, in there now,” he gestured. “I will break even more of his bones if I try to stop him and the way he’s acting I’m not sure I’d feel even remotely sorry afterwards.”

Aramis had managed to sit up and was trying to stand up to see if he could support his weight. 

“What in god’s name are you doing?” 

Aramis gave Porthos a wry, pained grimace. “A little privacy, please. Can’t you see I’m not dressed yet?”

Athos shot the others a look. This was at least a step up from being completely ignored. 

He gestured at the blood-stained sheet wrapped loosely around Aramis’ waist. “The only people who need to get dressed are people who aren’t recovering from serious injuries. That’s all you need for now until you get better. 

Ignoring him, Aramis tested his weight on his bad leg and paid for it dearly when his knee gave way and he crashed down to the floor. His screams of pain only intensified as his friends lifted him back up and on to the bed. 

“What on earth is wrong with you?” exclaimed d'Artagnan, “You’re in no state to go anywhere!”

“More to the point, there is no rush to go anywhere.” Athos adjusted the sheet over Aramis, but not before noting the severe bruising. He gave Porthos a concerned look and saw it had been noted by him as well. Athos leant in over the groaning man, his voice low, even and growling. “If you are well enough to sit up, you are well enough to talk. We have all been despairing with worry over you, Aramis and now you owe us the truth. I know you hate divulging secrets but this ends here. I will personally chain you to the floor and guard you for eternity if you do not tell us who did this to you and what is going on.”

Hot angry tears began to fall but Aramis shut his eyes and turned his head away, refusing to speak or meet their eyes. 

D’Artagnan volunteered to guard him and the others left with an equal measure of disappointment and worry. 

As soon as the door closed, Aramis met his eyes. “The time?” he implored. “Please, my friend, you don’t understand and I cannot tell you why it is so important. What is the time?” 

“Past four now.” D’Artagnan moved his chair closer and put a hand gently on Aramis’ injured arm as the musketeer threw his head back in despair. “I’m not here judging you. None of us are. We’re just trying to understand.”

Aramis covered his eyes with his good hand for a moment then lay it on D’artagnan’s. “You must promise me that you will make Porthos and Athos and everyone dear to me stay inside tonight. They cannot be allowed outside the garrison. Nowhere is safe.”

D’Artagnan frowned but nodded at the imploring eyes. “They’re here. None of us is going anywhere. We have combat trials in the morning, starting early, so nobody will be going out this evening.”

“That will keep you protected for one more night at least.” Aramis rolled his head back and stifled a sob with a groan. “What have I done, Lord? Please protect my friends as I have not the strength to help them.”

Treville gathered his men together to order them not to leave the garrison. There wasn’t a lot of reasoning behind the direction but this new outburst from Aramis gave enough cause to put precautions in place. 

Extra guards were put on the gate and word was sent out for all his men in Paris to return as soon as possible. 

“How has he been?” enquired Treville, throwing off his gloves as he entered the room with Porthos and D’artagnan. 

“Calmer when all his friends are close,” Athos observed, rising to stretch out after his watch. “But restless. Closed. Stubbornly secretive and difficult. Staying true to his character.”

Aramis flinched ever so slightly and they all knew he was listening. 

“Everybody back here safe?” asked Porthos. 

“Most.” Treville leaned against the door jamb and sighed, tired of the stress and drama of the past few days. “The young apprentice lad – Andre – he hasn’t returned so I’ve sent a party of three to fetch him back. They’ll be here shortly.” 

Porthos sat on the chair beside Aramis but didn’t reach for his hand nor did he offer him any soft greetings or enquire about his health. He was angry with his friend, worried for his friend and truth be told he was ever so slightly irked that when Aramis had spoken out his warnings it had been to d'Artagnan, not to him. It was his watch now and he would do only that – watch – and nothing more. 

This stubborn, silent stance was noted by Athos, who quirked his lip in approval and signalled for the others to leave them alone. The openness of Porthos sat well with someone as secretive as Aramis. Their personalities complemented each other, but with Porthos now taking a step back and adopting a taciturn stance, it would be an interesting battle to see whose will would win out. 

The standoff lasted three hours. Assuming Porthos was sleeping, Aramis turned his head to look at him, only to see a pair of dark familiar eyes staring right back at him. Porthos offered nothing except a solemn neutral gaze so Aramis rolled his head away and closed his eyes again. 

Another hour and Aramis again stole a look and once more found his friend glowering back. He turned his head away but only lasted twenty minutes before discomfort – mainly, but not totally physical – made him shuffle and fidget on the hard makeshift bed. 

“I need to sit up,” he announced simply. When nobody rushed to help him he sighed and rolled and groaned and generally made a fuss on his way to sitting upright. Porthos looked at the hunched naked muscular back, wounds healing slowly, and noticed a line of small thumb-sized rectangular raw red marks disappearing down below the sheet. He hadn't noticed those marks before. Morbid curiosity won out. He couldn’t stop himself and he stretched forward to inspect them. 

Aramis flinched and turned his head, but didn’t stop Porthos as he inched the sheet down to see the full shape the marks made. 

An icy dread trickled down his spine.

“No, Aramis. No, please tell me they haven’t … you’ve been … branded?” 

A small nod. 

“A … a … letter ‘K’? Someone has put their mark on you? Aramis, no, who did this? ” When there was no reply, Porthos dragged his chair around in front of Aramis and sat close, waiting for him to raise his head, to say something, but the musketeer hunched forward even more, scrunched his hair repeatedly through the fingers on his right hand then sat there, head bowed, saying nothing. 

“You listen to me. Everything we’ve been through, you’ve been there for me. You’ve never abandoned me, Aramis, never written me off or looked down on me or doubted my worth when others have done all those things and more. You’re my best friend and I’m yours. I’m here for you always, backing you up exactly the same way. We support each other, even when we don’t agree. I’d die for you which is why it kills me to see you like this.” Porthos put a hand up around Aramis’ neck and brought their foreheads together. “This is bigger than one small, highly-sexed, over-groomed musketeer who is quite good with a gun.” 

Aramis didn’t raise his head but he dropped his hand back down over Porthos’, squeezed the giant fingers tight and muttered, “Extremely.” Then added louder with a choked chuckle. “I’m extremely good with a gun.” 

Porthos gave him a careful hug and held on, relief washing over him to have finally made a connection. “You and me. We’re going to talk this through and sort it out together. Understand?” Something muffled was said into his neck and Porthos took it as an affirmative and affectionately ruffled Aramis’ curls.

A shout rang out in the courtyard. Other sounds - hooves clomping, alarmed voices, doors opening and feet clattering down wooden stairs. More shouts, Treville bellowing. Porthos was standing ready to move when Athos barged in, breathing hard. 

“Porthos, come quickly!”

“What is it” Are we under attack?” 

Athos shifted his gaze to Aramis, propped up as he was on the side of the bed. He flicked his eyes back. 

“Outside now, Porthos.”

They ran out into the courtyard, now filling quickly with men in various states of dress, some uniformed, some in their undergarments, all in a high state of alert and ready to fight.

There were no opponents though. No enemy, no foes, no-one armed and charging. Just three tired horses standing obediently together while their riders alighted. Porthos recognised them as musketeers. All seemed unhurt. But then he noticed something slung over the third horse. Men rushed forward to ease it off and place it gently down onto the ground. Athos and Treville pushed their way through and knelt down even as the blood began to pool and creep outwards through the cracks in the cobblestones.

The senior musketeers had seen countless bodies before but even they had to look away at first. Others around them fared less well. Some retched, many turned away and recited prayers, numerous cries of anguish echoed around the buildings. One lad, also an apprentice, tried to step forward to receive his friend but his legs buckled and he was carried away to a softer landing.

A tall man who brought in the body touched Treville on his arm. 

“This was found in … through … the wound. I don’t think it belonged to Andre.”

Athos looked up at the Gascon and d'Artagnan blanched as he was handed his blade. 

“The wound. Look at it.” Porthos was staring down at the boy’s chest. A massive hole gouged clean through, worked over and over with what could have been many instruments. The doctor tending Aramis had described the process only this time the torturer had no intention of keeping his victim alive.

D’artagnan dropped his blade as if it had stung him. “He knew. Aramis knew we were going to be targeted.” 

“The boy didn’t go to the inn as a musketeer. How could he have been made a target? He had no colours, no uniform,” pointed out Treville. 

“But he had my blade, a musketeer’s weapon marked and recognisable to anyone familiar with us.”

Treville lay a comforting hand on D’artagnan’s shoulder. “It isn’t your fault.”

Athos gritted his teeth. “No, but we know someone who can claim part of the blame.”

“Aramis is very ill,” Porthos stated quietly.

“He’s getting better.”

“He’s still in shock.”

“Aramis is being Aramis and withholding things from us yet again!”

“He’s been tortured, Athos! We can all see the terror in his eyes.”

Athos picked up d'Artagnan’s blade and rounded on Porthos. “That boy was tortured and killed by the same hand who hurt Aramis. Using a musketeer blade. He was one of our own and we didn’t stop it because information was withheld.”

“It’s not his fault.”

“Do you honestly think Aramis will see it that way when he finds out?” 

Angry eyes met, a beat, then Porthos grimaced, slowly lowering his head, and Athos took a step back, seeing his point had been made. 

“We need to stop this before he has even more on his conscience. Otherwise he’ll run straight back to that monastery and spend the next 40 years paying penance.” Athos glowered over at the quarters. “I don’t care how sick and terrified Aramis is. This needs to end here and if I have to I will beat the truth out of him to find the people behind this.”

Nobody said they would try to stop Athos if he carried out the threat, but Porthos made sure he ran close to his shoulder as they stormed up the passage leading to Aramis’ room. 

Bursting in, they all stopped short and stared in shock at the empty bed. 

Aramis was gone.


	4. A True Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aramis has to choose. ___

“I’ll kill him.”

Athos handed Porthos a pouch of musket balls. “Here, you’ll need these then. He’ll be dead by all our hands when we find him.”

“He’s badly injured. He can’t have gone far.” pointed out d'Artagnan.

Porthos let out a sour guffaw and shoved the pouch roughly into his belt. “If you think that then you clearly haven’t been paying attention to our determined little monk.”

D’Artagnan pondered this for a moment then said, “Are we sure he has left and not been taken?”

“He’s taken _my_ money, _my_ musket, **and** my ammunition” Porthos growled. 

______“Plus medical supplies,” added Athos, scanning the table scattered with an assortment of the doctor’s provisions. “It’s unlikely your average kidnapper would bother to stock up on those for their prisoner.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Treville stood in the doorway, blocking their exit as they made to leave. “Rushing out to find Aramis is a noble cause but there is a bigger mission here. We need to find a murderer. We need to understand why Aramis has left us, where is he going? Does he even know where he’s going?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Do we capture him and bring him back or follow him and find some answers?” mused Athos._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Let’s get out there first and we’ll decide what to do when we have him in our sights.” Porthos pushed past Treville and headed for the stables._ _ _ _ _ _

______The musketeer’s decision to take the horses was the right one, for Aramis too had slipped out through the stables while the guards were distracted in the courtyard. He untethered his horse and led it out, hanging on to the halter to keep his balance. Being barely able to walk meant he had no chance of mounting a horse unaided, but he stolen the money from Porthos for a reason and paid beggars and layabouts outside the garrison to help him mount the steed._ _ _ _ _ _

______It wasn’t easy and it hurt._ _ _ _ _ _

_______A lot. ____ _ _ _ _ _

________He knew every minute counted, as his friends would be in pursuit as soon as he was checked on and missed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________When mounted, Aramis groaned and bent into his horse’s neck. The physical pain was nothing compared to the pain he felt deceiving his friends. He had come so close to telling all to Porthos but hearing of the death of the boy had set his resolve again._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________For he had heard. He stumbled after Porthos and Athos, clinging to the walls, hunching in the shadows and biting down the urge to yell out in pain as the boy’s – as Andre’s – body was lowered to the ground. He couldn’t see clearly but he heard, he knew. And the physical agony that he felt paled in comparison to the anguish present in that courtyard. That was when he understood that he had to leave immediately._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Paris faded in and out and Aramis was impressed that he hadn’t fallen off the horse in his episodes of unconsciousness. His uninjured hand was wound tight in the beast’s mane and he hunched into its neck and tried to settle into the gentle rhythm of its gait._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Out of a dark alley to the side lurched a man, purportedly offering assistance, but Aramis kicked him away and urged the horse on. He knew enough about thieves to understand what an easy target he looked. Without his pauldron, hat or jacket, lacking any weapon except a musket and with only one hand to use it, he was in a sorry state. Even this late at night it was impossible to not see that he was badly injured. A perfect mark for an opportunist._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Normally Aramis liked roaming Paris after dark. He enjoyed watching, learning, absorbing and late in the evening when everybody let their guard down was the perfect time to soak up the energy and float unheeded among the lost souls of the night. Besides, ladies were fond of their men emerging from the shadows, dashing and mysterious and it was a fact that lanterns lit everybody in a more flattering light._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________It took nearly two hours to get to his destination on the outskirts of Paris. Sometimes he woke and realised that with the lack of direction from its rider, the horse had made an executive decision go in the opposite direction to the one he intended. Much backtracking was needed which didn’t help his exhaustion. More than a few times he found himself stopping and checking behind to see if he was being followed but it appeared that his friends had not managed to find him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________That was a very, very small consolation and not one that offered him any solace._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________He was truly alone now._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________The old mill was enormous, set back behind old oak trees whose branches whipped around violently in the swirling wind that was picking up. It looked like any other building but Aramis remembered the cruel hell kept hidden behind the thick stone walls._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________He debated getting off the horse to tend to his wounds but doubted his ability to either get back on or make it on foot the short distance to the front door._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Aramis was used to adrenalin, but not stomach-flipping nerves. It made him nauseous to recall what had happened in there. So why had he come back here? How could he risk going through that again? He knew what he had to do to avoid it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Simply follow orders._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Everyone knew how good he was at doing that._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________He slowly turned the horse around, facing back to Paris, to his friends, the garrison, the women who adored him, to the life he loved. They would protect him, he knew it. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for him, his family of brothers. And they would understand, absolve him for his strange behaviour in this episode of pain._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Aramis shut his eyes. Sometimes he fancied the Queen had come to him in a dream. Imaginary tears had fallen on cheeks as soft, trembling lips brushed his, murmuring adoring, imploring words begging him to be hers, always._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________She could not keep him safe from this and the only way to keep her and their son safe was to give up all he held dear._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Tears of his own fell and Paris blurred into the night sky, fires and lanterns turning into stars and the cosmos. His friends would protect him but he knew in his heart that he could not protect them. Not all of them. One by one they would fall to the same horrible fate. The boy was first. Four o’clock was the time promised and so it had happened._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Aramis wept and rummaged through the bag slung across his saddle. The nausea and fever were returning and the wound on his chest burned hot and sent shudders through his weakened body. The medicine he’d hastily stolen may help to ease the blaze eating through his torso, and perhaps it would help him through this impasse.

The pot of salve was hard to get out of the bag. The process was made doubly difficult trying to hold it with a broken wrist against a dislocated shoulder whilst dipping in the one relatively healthy hand he did have, albeit one lacking in strength. With a cry, the pot slipped from his grasp and smashed on the dirt and stones at his horse’s feet. 

“Perhaps you would you like some help, Monsieur Aramis?”

________A pot may have defeated Aramis but his reflexes remained instinctively sharp and the speaker had Porthos’ musket aimed at his head in an instant._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________The man stood to one side of the horse was of thin build, no more than forty five, but with few dark hairs remaining on his head and skin that had not spent a lot of time in the sun. Smartly dressed, Aramis recalled seeing him before, but he was not one of the ones who had been responsible for the terror and agony._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I am unarmed, as you see,” said the man, hands raised, then he smiled when the musketeer remained silent and didn’t lower the weapon which now wavered alarmingly as Aramis struggled to stop his arm from shaking._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“You came here of your own free will, Monsieur.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Aramis coughed out a laugh. “You know that’s not true.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Your horse faces Paris. If you go that way we will not stop you but you know what will happen again next week. Turn around and come with me now and everyone you love will be safe. You will be safe. We will feed you, shelter you, tend to your wounds, look after you as one of our own. You will be our brother.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“You are one of them. You are the cause of my wounds and you will never be my brother!” bellowed Aramis, gripping the mane of his horse tight to stop himself from falling. “Why are you doing this to me? Why almost kill me only to let me go? That boy you murdered had done nothing to you. What could you possibly want from me?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________The man lay a hand on Aramis’ leg which was immediately batted away, but he remained smiling warmly up at him. “We are trying to set you on your true path. To understand that His way is the only way. Enlightenment can be a long, hurtful process but He has deemed you worthy and once you join us you will embrace the course that He sets out for you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Confused, Aramis bent his head forward onto the mane and gasped at the effort it was taking to stay conscious._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I am a religious man. I embrace The Lord. My ways are not perfect and I have sinned, but how can you question my commitment to God?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________As Aramis finally succumbed to darkness he rolled forward off the horse and was caught by many strong arms. The last thing he remembered was the man’s low, soothing voice whispering in his ear._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“How innocent you are to think I was referring to God.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	5. Safe Keeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A hat. A doctor. Reminiscing. A slight punch up between friends._

It was too warm for a fire but Porthos violently jabbed the coals again and sent embers spitting up into the night sky. 

D’Artagnan felt uneasy. His friends were usually there to offer comfort and advice, to soften the impact of a difficult mission, to soothe his nerves and reassure him. 

There were no uplifting words here tonight. 

Athos sat back from the fire, out of Porthos’ peripheral vision, gouging a hole in a log unnecessarily with the tip of his blade. When Porthos had hit him, he hadn’t hit back, but D’Artagnan fancied that the log had taken on some of his big friend’s features as he stabbed the knife in hard and screwed away some more wood. 

The punches d'Artagnan had collected were no harder but perhaps more unexpected and he still now, hours later, felt his left ear hot and stinging.

He rubbed it again and caught Porthos glancing up at him, which was the whole point of rubbing it in the first place. 

There was no apology this time either. 

“We should have hauled him back here,” Porthos growled once more, “That’s what friends would have done.”

“We have to find out what is behind this,” offered d'Artagnan, trying to sound convincing, even if that argument hadn’t worked the first fifty times. “If we let this run, we may be able to work out how to shut it down.”

“And Aramis may die,” snarled Porthos, hurling the big stick into the flames with angry force. 

“We couldn’t have stopped him,” muttered Athos quietly as he stabbed his knife into the log with unwarranted force before accepting a bowl of broth offered by a nervous cadet. He took a sip and made a face. “Has Serge not returned? Is his wife still unwell? This is barely short of foul.”

The cadet did not reply and fled back to the food quarters. 

“I’m going to go back there.”

“No, you most certainly are not.”

D’Artagnan looked between the two musketeers, both speaking with equal certainty, both continuing on the same argument which had been rumbling for hours since Treville forced them to leave their watch on the old mill and let others step in while they rested. 

For they had followed Aramis. It hadn’t been difficult. Before they had mounted their horses at the garrison they were accosted by beggars offering them information at a price to tell them which way their injured musketeer had gone. 

It was heartbreaking, seeing Aramis so hurt, struggling to stay upright, correcting the direction of his horse on more than one occasion after he appeared to lose consciousness and it took the equine initiative to go walkabout. Such was the backtracking and terminally slow pace that the musketeers dismounted and followed him on foot for the last hour. 

Porthos was beside himself, raging and threatening them when he was stopped from rushing forward to help his friend every time he doubled up in pain or was in danger of falling. It descended into to something more physical when Aramis finally stopped his horse on the outskirts of Paris. When he turned his horse and looked as if he was coming back into Paris, Porthos had to be held back. When eight men came out of the mill and approached Aramis from behind it turned violent and d’Artagnan and Athos were on the receiving end of some serious blows. But they pushed him back into an alley out of sight and restrained their friend.

 _Just._

Then they let their other friend be taken by strangers, unconscious and wounded and lost to their scrutiny. 

Nobody felt good.

Emotional and scared for his closest friend, Porthos stood and strode towards the stables. 

Athos moved quickly and barred his way. 

“Don’t you dare try, Athos.”

Fixing him with clear, steely, grey-blue eyes, Athos put a hand on his chest. Not pushing. Not hard. Just resting. 

Porthos looked down at the hand then batted it away, nostrils flaring with anger. “The next time I hit you I won’t stop and you won’t be getting up for a very long time.”

“I doubt very much whether you’ll be able to hit me effectively with a musket ball in your arm.”

With his free hand, Athos aimed his musket at Porthos’ shoulder. 

“Wait, no, _NO!_ Oh, gentlemen, no, we are friends! Please, we cannot fight like this.” Alarmed, d'Artagnan ran forward, pushing Porthos back and deflecting the musket away from his friend. “We can’t implode when Aramis needs our help.”

“The boy has more sense than either of you,” observed Treville, glaring at Athos’ musket before gifting both men his most disappointed expression. 

“We shouldn’t have left him there,” snarled Porthos, repeating his mantra. 

“I agree,” conceded Treville, laying a hand on his shoulder, “but until we know what we’re dealing with, we cannot tackle it.”

Before Porthos could add more protests, his captain produced a bag and handed it to him. 

“I know you are the best person to mind this until it can be returned to its owner.”

Porthos gave Treville a dubious look, opened the bag, then cursed and turned back to the fire, trying hard to keep his emotions in check. When Porthos pulled the item from the bag, Athos put a hand over his heart and looked skyward before joining his friend beside the fire. 

D’Artagnan watched them, eyebrows raised, their animosity dissipated as quickly as it flared up. They were now just two men sitting together looking despondently at a hat. He looked at the captain quizzically. 

“It was found lying by Aramis near the Seine. I’ve had it cleaned, shaped and dried. They both need a symbol of him to focus their attentions.” He saw movement at the gate and quickly whispered to d'Artagnan, “Ask Porthos about the hat. A messenger is approaching and I need them distracted while I find out what has happened at the mill."

Annoyed at being tasked to divert his friend’s attentions, nevertheless d'Artagnan did as he was bid. He couldn’t imagine there would be much to say about one single blue hat. 

Athos and Porthos were talking in hushed tones, which was a positive step. All the while Porthos turned the hat over in his hands, stroking it, shaping it, lamenting the loss of its feather. They both looked up at d'Artagnan with slightly shamefaced expressions as he approached. 

“Our apologies, _mon ami_. We behaved poorly and set a bad example. We may disagree on the best way to deal with our lost brother, but know that our pain is shared and magnified with each moment he is away from us.”

Athos’ words were accepted with a courteous nod from D’artagnan. He gestured at the hat. 

“Aramis won’t like being without his favourite accessory.”

“Ahh, you don’t know the half of it,” sighed Porthos. 

Delighted to have the perfect opening for his tasked question, d'Artagnan enquired about its provenance. 

Porthos bowed his head, fiery reflections dancing in his eyes and his countenance softened for the first time in days. 

“When I first came here, I was more of an outsider than anyone. And we had men from all walks of life, all manner of backgrounds. But I looked different, knew no-one, knew nothing, except how to gamble and brawl. Treville couldn’t protect me through the training twenty four hours a day. I took all sorts of abuse, rejected by all the other musketeers and recruits. Except one.”

They all shared a smile. 

“Aramis had everyone in the palm of his hand from day one,” said Porthos fondly. “He was the burning bright light we were all drawn to. He spotted what was happening, claimed it to be unjust and without consulting me decided to turn it all around. He was better than me at swordplay but let me beat him, in front of everyone. He chose me to sit next to at every dinner, every night out at the inn, every time we took a break from training. He told wild untrue tales about my extraordinary exploits as a soldier and as a legendary lover of women. He lost all his money to me at cards and made a huge fuss about how impressive I was. Still claims to this day that he threw his hand but in that one I legitimately beat him.” 

Porthos shook his head, grinning at the memory. “If men wanted to be his friend, they had to be mine. Without Aramis I don’t know if I would ever have been accepted.”

“And where does the hat come in?” asked d'Artagnan. 

Overcome, Porthos shrugged and turned away, still clutching the hat as if it were a priceless treasure. 

“Porthos bought it for Aramis using his first three month’s pay and all the gambling money he won off him,” said Athos softly. “The feather came later from my own hat. I gave it to Aramis the first time he saved my life. He shot a man about to deal me a fatal blow. He aimed from an incredible distance yet he still took him right over the heart. We can better him at many things on a good day but nobody in France can rival Aramis at sniping.” Athos smiled and put his arm around d'Artagnan’s shoulders. “If I’d kept on giving him a feather for every time he saved me he’d now look like a prize cockerel.”

“He’s never been without his hat since that day,” sniffed Porthos, shifting back to them as he regained his composure. 

“He’ll have it again soon, my friend,” murmured Athos and the precious hat was held safely to one side as the two men embraced, harsh words forgotten.

Treville marched over from the gate waving a piece of paper. 

“We have movement, gentlemen. A doctor has been seen going to the old mill. Four hours later and he has returned to his home, so we have an address for him. I think it might pay for him to have a visit. There’s one more thing,” he added, “a few men recognised him as the doctor who inspected Aramis when he was found by the Seine.”

“Curious coincidence,” remarked Athos wryly, frowning. 

“Quite,” agreed Treville as he gave him the paper with the details on it. “Be discreet. Be vigilant. Report straight back, no matter what you find out. That means you, Porthos. ”

The musketeer in question pursed his lips and scowled, but nodded his agreement. 

Athos took the hat from Porthos and handed it to the captain. “It’s yours to safe keep until we return, Monsieur. Now let us make haste, gentlemen. We will work together, for Aramis. This may be our best chance to learn how to help him.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

The doctor frowned when he opened his door to find the night blocked out by three solemn musketeers, but he didn’t seem as surprised to receive visitors as one should have been at 3am in the morning. Plus he was still dressed in his smart coat, not his night attire, Athos noted. 

“Gentlemen, do you require medical assistance?” asked the doctor, concerned but unable to keep weariness out of his voice. 

“No. We require answers,” said Porthos, not waiting for an invitation and pushing past the man into his parlour. 

Little room was left once the four men stood crowded around the main table. The musketeers declined to sit but the doctor pulled out a chair and settled down, clasping his hands in front of him in a dignified, patient manner. 

“You examined our friend Aramis, a fellow musketeer, down by the Seine last week, did you not?” It wasn’t really a question the way Porthos stated it. 

The doctor nodded but made no attempt to speak. 

“Have you seen our friend since that night?” Athos watched him closely as the question was absorbed. 

“Should I have?”

Porthos’ lip curled. “It’s possible that you have very bad short term memory loss if you can’t remember that simple fact.”

The doctor shut his eyes and took a moment, all the while still sitting bolt upright and steady. 

He looked at them all one by one and said simply, “You have likely condemned me by coming here. They will not believe me if I say I have not revealed any of their secrets. And because my fate now seems clear I shall answer your questions as best I can.” A jittery exhaled breath exposed some rattled nerves. “Yes, as you well know I have been to tend to your friend tonight.” 

All three musketeers spoke at once. Who has him? Is he well? What do they want with him?

The medic fidgeted and seemed to reconsider his offer to tell all. 

“Is Aramis well?” Porthos repeated, at least wanting his question answered. 

“As well as he could be, considering his injuries and the state of his mind.”

Athos braced a hand on the table and leaned in with more than a hint of menace. “Tell us who these people are.”

Smiling, and shaking his head at the impossibility of an easy answer, the doctor shrugged. “They are everyone. People you pass in the street. Merchants, practitioners, lawyers, bankers.”

D’Artagnan frowned. “So how many of them are there?”

Another shrug. “I cannot tell. I see a small fraction of them when I am called on to treat people in their care.”

“You mean victims they have tortured,” corrected Porthos angrily.

The medic shrugged and continued. “Of the others in charge, the mainstays of the operation, I can only guess their numbers.”

“These people – these merchants and lawyers and bankers – what on earth do they want with Aramis?” 

The doctor looked at Porthos, a frown creeping between his brow. “Everyone serves a purpose. I am called on to use my medical skills. I treated your friend after they attacked him and before he was placed on the banks of the Seine. It was my job to make sure he stayed alive long enough to be found.”

Porthos slammed a large hand down on the table. “They nearly kill Aramis only to have you make sure he stays alive? That is insanity. What is the purpose of all this? Who is controlling you? Why would you go along with what these people are asking you to do?”

The doctor rose and wiped his brow with a ‘kerchief. “I do not know the purpose for which they want your friend.” He paused. “I do know that he has been gifted with a mark and I have only ever seen one other in all my many years of treating them.”

“A mark?” Athos and D’Artagnan looked at each other then at Porthos who had visibly paled. It was not something he had mentioned to them yet. 

“Aramis has been … branded … with a letter ‘K’ on his lower back,” Porthos confirmed, ignoring the gasps of his friends. “You say he was _‘gifted’_ that mark. That’s definitely not any sort of gift. What is the purpose of it?”

“It tells me that your friend is very special. Nobody can touch him now. Not without permission.”

“Permission from who?” Athos grabbed the medic by the lapels of his coat and shook him. “Who is in charge?”

“I have never met him. I don’t know his name. He collects people. Not just professionals. People of influence, eloquent men, those of political persuasion, anyone with rare skills, writers, painters, poets, educators.”

“So it’s just one man ruling everything? How can he hold threats over so many people?”

“It has taken him years, decades, but He has built up a network of followers. Where there are people of influence there are henchmen, Enforcers, who willingly do their bidding. They are allowed to be creative and are left alone as long as they report back to him, follow specific directions and don’t draw too much attention to the operation. So you see He can be everywhere and see all.”

“Is he in the old mill?

“No. I have never known his whereabouts but I do know He is not in Paris. Messengers ride north when they send him correspondence.”

“How did he snare you?” asked Athos. 

The doctor’s composure crumpled slightly and he dabbed his ‘kerchief on his upper lip. “I had three sons. When the Enforcers approached me to tend to one of their victims, to keep him alive but not heal him, I refused. As a healer it went against everything I stand for. They killed my sons one by one, in the manner in which they injured your friend, but going that single step further from torture to death, then threatened to do the same to my wife and all those I loved until I relented.” He bowed his head and wiped tears from his eyes. “How could I continue to refuse?” 

Horrified, Athos lay a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We will protect you and your wife. No harm will come to you.”

“My wife died not three weeks ago. A heart condition, nothing to do with the Enforcers. I care not what happens to me now. She is gone and because I have spoken freely to you here my life is over.”

“We will protect you,” promised Athos again. “Men will be stationed outside your home day and night. You need not fear. And these Enforcers will regret the day they targeted a musketeer.”

The doctor looked up at him sadly. “You think your friend is the first musketeer they have ensnared?”

“What? _No!_ Who? Who in our ranks has been deceiving us?”

“Not deceiving you. Just too scared to reveal the blackmail. I was never told his name. It was many, many years ago. I saw the insignias on his pauldron and his outfit was that of a musketeer. You will find him from the scars he bears on his chest as their methods have not changed. He fought as your friend did but relented sooner to do their bidding.” 

Athos drew his musket and waved at his comrades. “I will stay guard until reinforcements arrive. Go now and find this traitor. Make haste gentlemen.”

D’Artagnan barged out the door but Porthos paused on the threshold and turned back to the doctor. “You said you’ve only ever seen one other victim with a brand. Who was it?”

He shrugged. “I heard no name. He was a young man, strong, handsome, wilful. He was naked and mostly unconscious when I treated him but I saw his bloodied robes lying nearby and he prayed with a northern lilt during thin bouts of consciousness. He was a monk serving in Douai I do believe.” At the startled reaction from the musketeers he clarified, “My mother’s family were from the area. I spent my youth playing with the orphans cared for by the monks. Bright blue wool the order wore. Very distinctive.”

“ _Aramis!_ A connection at last.” 

“Porthos, be swift my friend! We will find the traitor in our ranks then we will ride once again to the monastery at Douai. It cannot be a coincidence that Aramis spent four years there, as did the only other victim with a brand that this man has treated.” 

“And Douai is north!”

“Go now! _Fly!_ ”


	6. Spirited Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The cupboard was bare._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Not quite sure of the timeline but didn't want the affair with the Queen/dauphin's true parentage to be known by anybody except the key musketeers.
> 
> *** Thanks to all who have left comments. Really, really appreciate them and the interest in the story so far.

A small problem presented itself when Porthos and d'Artagnan arrived at the garrison. They had not asked the doctor to clarify the timeframe but the phrase _‘many, many years ago’_ when the man had treated the traitor musketeer – as Porthos insisted on calling him – excluded most of the garrison’s men from being the culprit. Indeed, Porthos, Athos and Aramis themselves were considered seniors, such was the toll on soldiers and their respective lifespans. 

“You do realise that you and Athos are now the two most likely culprits,” pointed out Treville forcefully and with a clear note of smug satisfaction as he started to put his shirt back on. 

“All right. You can stop repeating that any time you want.” Porthos turned his back to give his captain some privacy and watched out the window as Athos dismounted deftly from his horse and ran up the stairs three at a time. 

He burst in, eyes bright more from adrenalin than the sharpness of the cool night air. 

“I’ve been thinking. Twenty years! The first person we should check for scars is Captain Trev…”

Athos skidded to a halt as he surveyed the scene, pursing his lips. Treville raised his eyebrows and waited for an apology but Athos merely crossed his arms and leaned nonchalantly against the window, expression bored. Porthos wished his friend would at least have the good grace to blush or look ashamed as he had but Athos could be an infuriating pragmatist when it came to doing what had to be done. 

“Quite,” said the captain brusquely. “These two have brought me up to date. I’ve eliminated myself from your enquiries. What else do you have for us?”

“Not a lot. Just a bit more detail perhaps.” Athos whistled out the window and summoned some food. “The monk treated by the doctor was at the mill around five or six years ago. He only saw him the once but the brand was the same ‘K’ as on Aramis and these so called Enforcers were petrified of the consequences if they let him die on their watch.”

“I honestly don’t know whether that news should make me cheer or cry,” offered d'Artagnan, echoing all their thoughts. 

“Someone wanted the monk’s life preserved very badly, despite being the one to hurt him in the first place,” murmured Treville. “I think for now we should hang on to that as a hopeful thought for Aramis.”

“What about this musketeer traitor?”

Athos exhaled. “Nearing twenty years. That’s how long ago the doctor thinks there was a musketeer in this group’s clutches.” 

“Shame you didn’t relay that news here quicker. It would almost have ruled me out and saved us all from the sight of me taking my shirt off.” Athos at least had the manners to offer up a sheepish smile at Treville’s taunt. 

Porthos smiled then exhaled deeply. “You’ve been here longer than anybody, Captain. Is there someone you can think of who might have been compromised? Anybody who has left in mysterious circumstances?”

“Musketeers don’t leave, they die. Or like Aramis they have a sabbatical when they’re in the midst of a crisis of confidence. I know them all like brothers. They are brothers. We’d all lay down our lives for one another.”

Athos took a mouthful of stew and spat it back in the bowl. “Ugh! Vile swill!” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and made a revolted face. “I will kiss Serge on the lips in front of the whole garrison when he returns.” 

The comment made Porthos laugh but d'Artagnan’s back straightened and he cocked his head. 

“How long is Serge away for?”

“It’s way too long already,” complained Athos. 

“Indefinitely,” Treville confirmed, “Until his wife is better. Like Athos I hope for her very speedy recovery because we’ve all been suffering this past week or so.”

D’Artagnan stood slowly and looked around at his companions. 

Treville caught on first. 

“ _No._ Don’t even think it!”

Athos merely shook his head, but he frowned as he processed the idea. 

Porthos looked around, unclear what he was missing. Then it dawned on him. 

“Serge?” He laughed, rich, loud and disbelieving. “That’s ridiculous. No way.”

“He’s been on leave since the night that Aramis went missing,” calculated D’Artagnan. 

“He’s been here even longer than the Captain.” Athos was cautiously warming to the idea. 

“No way would he betray us! Come on. This is preposterous.” Porthos refused to accept the theory. 

Treville grabbed his cloak. “Why don’t we all pay Serge a visit?”

“We’ll look like fools.”

“If we do we’ll try to save face by enquiring earnestly about the health and wellbeing of Serge’s wife.

 

“Well that certainly doesn’t fill me with confidence that this will end nicely!”

Porthos gritted his teeth and watched as Serge’s wife laughed and giggled with a young man who was carrying two large buckets of water along the street to her door for early morning cooking and ablutions. The alarming thing was that she herself carried two large buckets as well, plus a sack of washing on her back. 

“She seems to be feeling a tad better,” growled d'Artagnan. 

Athos loaded his musket. “Remarkable recovery.” 

They waited until she went to put the buckets down to open the door then strode over. 

“Let me, Madame,” offered Treville, bowing as he opened the door. Without invitation they all followed her inside. 

“Oh, I must say, it’s an honour to have you visit our home but I wish Serge had warned me you were coming and I’d have spent less time washing and fetching water and more time making everything more presentable, myself included.”

Serge’s wife _Oohed_ and _Aahed_ and fussed and flustered and the musketeers held pleasant, contained expressions until the reason for their visit appeared in the doorway, looking like the night had treated him roughly. 

“Captain!” He sounded surprised to see them noted d'Artagnan, as the man nodded silent greetings to them all in turn. Nervous and surprised. They offered nothing by way of leading the conversation and Serge seemed unable to find words. Only his wife kept up the chatter, offering them refreshments and apologising for the state of their lodgings.

“Might we had a word with your husband alone Madam,” said Treville eventually when the impasse seemed never to be broken. 

She bustled off, still apologising and Serge’s whole body seemed to sag in her absence. 

“Your wife seems to have made a truly miraculous recovery,” noted Porthos sourly as the old man slumped into a chair and put a hand on his chest. 

“Porthos!” reprimanded Treville. They had agreed to let their captain do all the talking, at least initially. 

Pulling up a seat in front of Serge, Treville watched him for a long while before speaking. “Your sons both died many years ago. I remember your grief, your pain. You told me one was run over by a cart and the other fell to thieves when on an errand out of Paris.” He leaned forward and put a firm hand on the old man’s knee. “It is time for the truth, Serge. You will now tell me what really happened.”

The man tried to speak but fell forward, clasping Treville’s hand in his and moaning in distress. 

“I didn’t mean it, Cap’n. I didn’t mean to deceive you. I’ve been waiting for this day for so long. To find you at my door with hate and disappointment in your eyes. I feel as if my soul has hovered over a roasting pit of damnation for years.”

“Your sons,” said Treville quietly, neither embracing Serge nor pushing him off, “Tell me.”

Sobbing shook the musketeer’s shoulders. “I said no to them again and again. I thought they would give up eventually without me having to involve anyone from the garrison. They told me what they did to the loved ones of people they wanted and I didn’t listen. My sons, my beloved sons. Their lives had just begun.”

It took some time before Serge was composed enough to continue. “My youngest was only delivering some bread. Despite the threats I didn’t think he could be in danger, in the daylight, lots of people around. A man riding past deliberately kicked him down in front of the wheels of a cart and his legs were severed. He bled to death before word got to me and I could reach him. All I saw was his body in the morgue. He died in a stranger’s arms.”

“And your eldest?” 

“The same as they did to Aramis and all the other men they torture. But worse. And for longer. They left a note for me telling me where his body was. I buried him where nobody would ever find him or see the wounds on his body and never told a soul the truth. My wife knows nothing. Please don’t punish her, she is innocent.”

Treville put a steadying hand on Serge’s shoulder. 

“What did these men want from you?”

“Information. Intrigue. Details about people, their skills, their movements. I think they overestimated my position though. I told them little they didn’t already know. In the end they mostly used me to cook for The Enforcers. All these years and I felt there had been few consequences from helping them. Until Aramis came back to us. Then it all changed. They wanted to know everything about him, his abilities, his allegiances, any loved ones he might have.”

Porthos felt his blood run cold. “And you told them.” 

Serge looked up at the musketeers. “I’m sorry. They threatened my wife. I told them where he would be when they snatched him. Knew he’d be at the inn. Knew he’d make his excuses to go visit a lady friend before you lot had finished drinking.”

“What else did you tell them? Why do they want Aramis so badly?”

“I dunno. Honestly, I don’t. They asked me about him. Or more specifically _He_ asked me about Aramis.”

“He? You mean the man in charge?”

Serge nodded. 

“I hadn’t ever seen him before. Just heard him talked about in whispers. But when Aramis came back to us from the monastery I was summoned immediately to meet someone important at the Basilica in Saint-Quentin.”

“Did you get his name or find out where he was based?”

“I was just there to answer questions.”

“Such as …?”

“He wanted me to confirm things. He already knew so much – about his upbringing in the brothel, how he came to be a musketeer, about Savoy, about affairs of the heart. He knew all about the garrison, his closeness to his friends, and how good you’ve been to Aramis, captain.” Serge ran his fingers through his long grey locks and chuckled wearily. “Got some things wrong though. Really wrong. Asked me what I knew about Aramis having an affair with our Queen and being the Dauphin’s father. How daft would that be?” 

The musketeers were lucky that Serge kept his head down and didn’t see their expressions. Porthos had to remember to breathe, such was his shock. D’Artagnan gasped then had to turn it into a cough to cover his disbelief. Athos gripped the back of a chair and met Treville’s eyes over Serge’s lowered head, extreme alarm mirrored there. 

“How did he know these things? The ones that aren’t preposterous,” added Treville. 

Shrugging, Serge raised his palms in wonder. “I was in no position to question him. He seemed very … _fixated_ … with Aramis.” He licked his lips nervously. “Unnaturally so. Wanted to know of any special relationships he might have. Anybody he was particularly close to. I realise now he was meaning ladies, but all I could think of at the time was how much he loves his closest friends. Porthos. You lot.”

Porthos groaned at the mention of his name and Athos frowned. “What else did he ask you? What did you tell him that he already didn’t know?”

“He seemed particularly curious about Aramis’ talents as a musketeer. Didn’t know that he was the best shot in France or that he spoke many languages.”

“Until you told him …?” Athos closed his eyes to the answer and turned away. “None of this is filling me with optimism,” he murmured to Porthos. 

Serge looked around at them all, their gloom. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My sons died, my friends and family were threatened and I didn’t know how to get out of it. If I had told you, what could you have done? You couldn’t have kept everyone I love locked up indefinitely. There are too many of them, too many eyes for anyone to escape. And as time got on I felt that what I was telling them wasn’t really of much import anyway. So I carried on. My wife stayed safe. I lived with it, if not easily. Then when I was summoned to meet Him at Saint-Quentin I felt terrible. Aramis! He wanted Aramis! Captain, you must believe me, I feel as bad as when my sons died.”

“Aramis is _not_ dead. Missing to us, momentarily, but not dead.” 

“No, no, of course not,” stammered Serge, but he didn’t sound convinced. “But I will be. Dead. When they find out I’ve talked to you. My wife too. My darling wife.”

“Nobody will lay a finger on you or your wife,” declared D’Artagnan, clutching his sword. 

Athos nodded. “We’ll take you both back to the garrison and put you in guarded quarters until it is safe to return here.”

The laugh was ironic. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with. They’ll kill me, kill my wife, kill Aramis, kill everyone who tries to get in their way. They won’t stop! They aren’t scared of anyone!”

“They should be scared of us and if they aren’t, we’ll use that to our advantage.” Athos’ voice was low and firm but didn’t seem to assuage the old musketeer at all.

Porthos’ head whipped around as the entrance door shuddered with heavy rapping and Serge let out of cry of terror. Musket drawn, Porthos opened the door carefully. On the other side were two musketeer cadets, anxious, restless. 

“Treville. Please, we need to speak to ‘im.” Spotting his senior through the door, the cadet lunged forward past D’Artagnan. “Captain, you need to come quickly. The doctor we was mindin’….he’s dead!”

 

It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was better than the one they had anticipated with dread on the ride over. Vomit, a putrid froth and spits of blood covered the doctor’s chin as he slumped over the table in the exact same spot they had left him only hours before. 

“We was outside the whole time, front and back of the ‘ouse, Captain,” stated the visibly distressed musketeer charged with guarding the doctor’s house. “Ain’t nobody gone in or out until we found ‘im.”

“Murdered or by his own hand?” asked Porthos as he inspected the potion bottle lying loosely on the table by the doctor’s right hand. “He seemed composed when we spoke to him.”

Athos took the bottle from him and sniffed it, making a face. “A lot of people appear composed when in fact they are dying inside. I think our doctor made a choice and it was made out of sorrow rather than fear.”

D’Artagnan didn’t quite believe him and said so. “Look how petrified old Serge is. He’s not a musketeer of legend but I’ve heard stories of his feats before he got too old to fight and he’s no slouch. And Aramis. How bad must his fear have been to make him shun us and go back to the animals who hurt him so badly?”

Porthos chewed on his bottom lip with worry and scowled. “Aramis didn’t shun us. He was protecting us. These other people have had their loved ones threatened and killed when they refused to comply with their orders. Aramis doesn’t have any blood relatives, but he does have people he loves dearly. Us. I know him. He went back to protect us.” 

“I’m sure you’re right about him trying to protect his friends,” mused Athos in his even, laconic way, “but you’re not completely correct. You’re forgetting something … Aramis does have a blood relative now. Someone he loves just as deeply as any of us. And someone this mysterious man in charge – whoever he is – apparently knows about.”

“Ye gods!” cried Porthos. “This whole thing is getting messier the more we dig into it. We need a plan, beginning with bringing Aramis back to us so I can kick his behind for being such a fool to think he had to protect us. What shall we do, raid the mill now?” 

Treville crumpled his mouth as he chewed over options. “That is the logical place to start. But not now, we wait until dusk. The building is being watched so nobody can get out. We rescue Aramis, make sure he’s kept safe at the garrison as Serge is now, then head on to Douai … no, wait, first we go to Saint-Quentin. I want to see if anybody there knows anything before we storm into the monastery at Douai with a thousand missing pieces to the puzzle.” 

 

 

Rested, dusk came and the musketeers waited low in the field outside with a solemn fervour. The garrison remained well guarded but all other soldiers were at hand to storm the old mill, hiding in hollows of the swaying pale ochre wheat. 

“We’re coming my friend. We won’t let you down.” 

Athos had been listening to similar chants and promises from Porthos for the last hour. He had no intention of telling him to quieten or lessen the repetition. It spurred them all on. They would rescue their friend, no matter what his state of mind or body and despite his stubborn unwillingness to be diverted from his self-sacrificing gesture.

Prisoners were to be made of anyone found inside, unless killing was strictly necessary. That fact – the ‘strictly necessary’ part - was reiterated to Porthos numerous times by Treville before they left the garrison. 

Gunpowder would blow open the main door and the smaller entrance around the back. More than fiftyy musketeers would move in with Athos and Porthos charged with locating Aramis. 

Athos watched with more than a tingle of anticipation as key men hunched and ran forward to the mill, hidden better now with the impending darkness. Explosives were lit, placed at the door and the soldiers all braced for the blast and the subsequent rush forward. Not a soul had gone in nor come out of the mill today and Athos could only guess whether they were laying low due to anticipation of the raid or were completely complacent about the musketeers’ determination to retrieve one of their own. 

The doors blew out not a second apart and Athos found himself sprinting before the first of the debris had even begun to settle. Porthos charged for the back door and Athos the front. They ran in, musket in one hand, sword in the other, yelling warnings and threats along with dozens of their comrades. 

Their voices echoed through the dust and settling powder from the stonework blown to bits around the door. As they all ran forward, searching rooms, cupboards, stairs, the silence – the absence of shots or swords clashing – began to make Athos’ heart race.

“No, no, _NO!_ ” His unease was echoed by Porthos as he ran from room to room, frantically seeking for his friend. “No! How can there be nobody here? This place has been guarded ever since Aramis was taken here. There were dozens of men in this building. Where the hell have they all gone?” 

D’Artagnan ran in, took in their shared despair then punched and kicked the wall. “This doesn’t make sense! How can they have all been spirited away?”

“I suspect it has less to do with spirits and more to do with tunnelling.” Treville whistled to them from the next room and they ran in to find him looking pensively down through a dilapidated wooden cellar hatch, angled into the wall of a massive old kitchen. 

He sighed as they crowded around and peered down. A thick ladder drew down deep into the darkness, but as their eyes adjusted they could all make out an extraordinarily large cellar and at the far corner, past wine barrels and crates of rotting food, a substantial tunnel. 

“They’ve escaped through the tunnel? But to where? We would have seen them if they’d surfaced anywhere around the fields in front of the mill.”

Athos looked askew at d'Artagnan. “Under the river? If they emerged anywhere over that side across the bank, back within the forest we wouldn’t have noticed them.”

D’Artagnan shook his head in disbelief. “That’s almost half a league away! Nobody could tunnel that far.”

“They could if they had almost twenty years to do it.” 

Treville immediately sent a party forward to inspect the tunnel and find out its exit point.

“Watch out for traps. Report straight back.” He barked orders at a couple of men peering down into the tunnel after their fellow soldiers. “Enough standing around. Go and get our supplies and ready the horses.”

“You three, we leave for Saint-Germain immediately,” declared Treville. “If we find nothing to enlighten us there we’ll head straight for Douai.”

“And what if we don’t find Aramis in either of those places,” asked Porthos angrily. “What if we find exactly what we’ve found here – absolutely nothing.”  
The captain stared at him, shared his worry and disappointment at the failure of the raid. 

“If we cannot find anything of substance - either Aramis or evidence of where he has gone - then I really will start to believe that spirits are involved.”


	7. Confessions of a brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ask and you shall receive._

A single sharp splinter of light tried to burrow through his eyelid. If he moved his head to the side he could feel it hot and focussed on his cheek. Neither was pleasant and he decided that he had no desire to be woken from his unconsciousness. 

Sleep or unconsciousness? He didn’t want to think about which one was correct because then, either way, making himself wonder about things meant he was drifting into wakefulness. Or consciousness. Each one led down a path to pain, he knew that much. 

The spot of light suddenly disappeared and he sensed a form eclipsing it. If he went down the dramatic path he could imagine it to be a wolf or a bear, about to devour him in the deepest, mustiest hollow in the woods. Would that be so bad? It would save him from deciding whether to be asleep or unconscious. Death was like that. Relieved you of all your indecisions. 

A hand on his chest, cool cloth wiping his brow, wet droplets drip, drip dripping down past his ear. The wild beasts were either very dextrous or he had to leave them aside and consider another option. Other hands pulled up the bandages from his chest wound and applied something that caused him pain – no, not pain … discomfort. Pain now lived in a whole other category. One day he would write big hefty tomes about Pain. He could describe it in a thousand different ways. Maybe that could be the title? _A Thousand Facets Of Pain._

But concentrating on Pain would mean leaving his safe, nebulous, fuzzy world and he had no intention of giving up something so hard fought. Let the hands try to make him cry out again. He wouldn’t. He’d go the other way and head somewhere darker. The place he’d thought of before and many times recently. Where he first retreated after Savoy. The place where you couldn’t turn around and come back from. 

He’d gone there. Tried to. When it all got too much. But every time someone would talk to him, humming, interrupting, reminding him of things not at all connected with finality. The voice would say something funny. Point out something silly he’d done. Prompt him to remember a moment, a scene, laughing, joking, being hugged, held. Then he suddenly found himself spun around away from the darkness, giddily feeling his heart thump again, wondering at the joyous companionship just out of reach. 

It was a mirage. He’d heard about those from travellers. Adventurous men who visited exotic places told stories of miraculous images rising out of the sand. Things you craved most when you needed them most, only to be snatched away at the last moment, ever retreating with the horizon. 

An unattainable vision. 

That’s what the voice that made him giddy was like. 

He had to ignore it before it made him insane. 

These hands had no voices attached to them. They didn’t promise him anything, didn’t try to push or pull him anywhere he didn’t want to go. Simply made themselves known, fretting over his battered body and his brow, then left. 

It was the perfect arrangement for someone who had no desire to see who was attached to those hands. Who had too much experience seeing expressions on faces as their hands did the dirty work. No, today was not the day to open his eyes. 

A big booming laugh played at the back of his mind, urging him to react, be curious, to see where he was and what was happening. Mirages were like that – goading you into doing something you really didn’t want to do. 

But he refused to participate.

_Not today._

Aramis ignored memories of laughing and the companionship and promises of hugs and hid back in the shadows where it was safe. 

 

 

D’Artagnan stared up at the mighty fortifications around Saint-Quentin with the gothic Basilica rising impressively up from the town behind the walls and made a noise of appreciation. “Treasures they want to keep hidden?” he asked.

“Spanish they want to keep out,” corrected Athos. “After their last siege the town was decimated by looters and deserted for two years. 

It made the younger man let out a whistle in wonder.

They made their way past the city guards and up towards the Basilica, the entrance tower rising high and grand above them, gleaming in the late golden winter sun. Finding shelter for the night was straightforward and once the horses were fed and sheltered to their satisfaction they approached one of the priests outside the tower. 

It was established that the Bishop was travelling to Rome and that the best person to speak to if enquiring about a travelling friend was Father Bernard. He was in the south transept and shuffled slowly to them, smiling apologetically. 

“I am told you seek a friend who may have recently passed through here?”

“Very recently,” confirmed Porthos. He described Aramis – _flatteringly_ – then made reference to the large party of ruffians who may have accompanied him – _not so flatteringly_. “Our friend would have been very ill. Most likely unable to ride unless held or strapped to a horse.” 

“Oh dear. It does sound like your friend should not be travelling. I’m sure our clergy would have noticed someone in such distress and certainly would have rendered assistance even if not prompted, but I have not heard of anyone here in such a state these past two days.”

“Prior to that – some months ago – one of our senior musketeers met here with someone from the order of Douai. A senior member? A priest perhaps?” prompted Athos.

“My son, I am sorry. As you see, we are a very busy diocese.” He swept his hand around at the sheer volume and variety of people milling just in the single transept. “Many people meet here in the Basilica, the grounds, and in the town itself. A priest travelling through and speaking to a parishioner or a lay person happens many, many times, every hour, every day. Father Jonas from Douai unfortunately passed away some months ago. Terrible business with some Spanish soldiers. His replacement, Father Gerard, has not visited here for over a decade but has been summoned to Paris for the visit of His Excellency, the Pope. We do expect him to arrange a stopover here to break up his journey, but I will ask to see if anybody can enlighten you more before you leave in the morning. I am sorry. Your journey may have been for naught.” 

Dejected, they thanked the priest then questioned a few more priests and clergy on their way out, but nobody seemed to have any leads or any recognition of an important person from Douai apart from Poor Father Jonas. They asked everyone back in the inn, they asked the stable boys, the barmaids, passers-by. 

Nothing. 

They drowned their disappointment in copious tankards of ale. 

Then early the next morning, when ale was still making its presence known in Porthos’ head and stomach, there was a soft tapping and scraping on his window. Two small scruffy boys stood beneath his window, both holding long branches aimed his way. 

“’Ere, whadya want?” 

“Man paid us t’ come get ya. ‘E ‘as inflammation.”

Porthos grinned. “Inflammation? Is that the burning desire to impart knowledge?”

The boys swore at him crudely.

Pleased with his joke and wishing Aramis was there to appreciate it too, Porthos roused the other musketeers. They armed up, always wary about a trap. 

The boys didn’t hang around to be interrogated. They skipped ahead as soon as the musketeers emerged from the inn and kept up a heady pace all the way down through the wakening town to a stable near the west side of the city wall. 

As was the way with informants, the musketeers had to wait in the stable – pistols loaded and ready - before he eventually decided to show himself. 

He was possibly 30 or 35, slender but not slim. Light hair dipped and curled around his shoulders and his facial hair looked as if it were overdue for a trim. The clothes he wore were simple and clean but not fancy. But he had the bearing of nobility, a quiet dignity and demeanour which warranted attention. 

Porthos couldn’t stop looking at his eyes. 

They were dark and soulful, a well of deep emotions. There was a clarity of expression, an openness of emotions and heart. 

_It was all so familiar._

Porthos missed Aramis so much right now that he had to turn away to calm himself. 

“What do you want?” he asked gruffly, turning back. 

“My name is Abel,” the man said, voice rich and composed. “I was told that you have been asking about a certain man from the monastery at Douai. You must stop involving people in this. It isn’t safe to stir up interest about Him.”

“We believe he is involved in the kidnap of one of our friends. We’re trying to track them.”

“Kidnap? Or did your friend leave you of his own accord?”

Abel watched their faces in turn, studying the frustration and anger at the truth he had pointed out. He nodded slowly, sat down on a stool and gestured for them to sit across from him on a long bench. 

“I believe I may know of whom you speak and I will tell you what I know. I do not wish anybody to go through the grief my family has been through.”

Wringing his hands, Abel took time to compose his story. 

“My brother Olever was very talented jeweller and goldsmith. We grew up in Amiens but he was lucky enough to be apprenticed out and perfected his trade with his master, moving between Limoges and Paris. He was handsome, gregarious, full of life. I sometimes wondered if the ladies commissioned him more because of his personality than his jewellery.”

Abel worked a large ornate ring on his finger around and around. “I am an architect. He made this for me when the first public building I designed was opened. Said it would keep me safe.” 

“What happened to him?” pressed Athos quietly.

The man sighed. “By the age of thirty he had enough money and resources that he could indulge any whim he liked. And of all the worldly escapes he could have bought he chose life in the Abbey of Saint-Etienne. Not forever. Just a year, he said. A year to purge his soul of excess thoughts, time to focus and clear his heart of any blemishes. We smiled in frustration but encouraged him, thinking he would emerge after a year all the more brilliant and capable. Our brother, our son, so proud we were of him, never taking a faltering step. Little did we guess how gravely wrong we would be proved.” 

Abel put the ring on a hay bale in front of him and stared at it as he continued.

“A year passed and we waited for him to return. His letters which had initially arrived full of such passion and fervour, became sparse in their timing and aloof in their tone. Another year and we stopped receiving letters at all. I travelled to Caen, to the Abbey to try to speak to Olever but was told he was not receiving visitors and to await news by his own hand. Six months later my father went there and was told that Olever had suddenly left them without warning and they had no clue as to his whereabouts. My family were devastated.” 

Abel stood and looked up at the dark, rotting ceiling of the stable, his features now weary and drawn.

“Six months ago Olever knocked on my window in the middle of the night. He was so thin, so anguished. He insisted that his life was now over but he wanted me to understand what had gone so horribly wrong.”

Abel looked at them now. “Your friend. He went to Douai to take his vows?”

“Tried to. They didn’t think him ready.” Porthos was frowning, trying to understand all the connections with this man’s story.

“How long was he there for?”

“Four years. Came back to us not long ago.”

The man nodded, working something out in his head. “That makes sense. Olever poured out his heart to me that night. He told me all he could, begged me to forgive him for all his sins. I didn’t understand. He had not left Saint-Etienne willingly. A man he knew had taken him under duress. Had drugged him and taken him on a long trip to Douai. Said my brother could only be known now as Brother Quintrell. He was sworn to secrecy and no-one else except this one man could know the truth.”

“Who is this man?” demanded Athos. “What is his name?”

“Kvorjac.”

Porthos sat upright, startled. “The brand. The ‘K’.”

Abel paled considerably. “You know of that?”

“Aramis had been freshly branded when we found him. Beaten, tortured horribly, and branded with a ‘K’ on his lower back.”

Ashen, trembling, Abel sat down again, running his fingers through his hair over and over again, the tale taking its toll on him.

“My brother had the same mark. He showed it to me along with all the other signs of abuse. He spoke of Enforcers, the ones who had tortured him, but it was Kvorjac alone who branded him.”

“But why? What is the purpose of all this?” asked D’Artagnan. 

Abel grimaced and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Your friend, he was handsome and charming, was he not?”

They all nodded. 

“Dark of hair, locks long and curling, an easy smile and a nurturing quality?”

“Your brother knew Aramis?”

“Ahh, Aramis, yes, that was the name. Brother something, but he did say the name Aramis that night. Yes, he met him, he described him to me, although I can’t say he got to know him directly.” Abel took a long drink from a flask and cleared his throat. “My brother had been targeted by Kvorjac in Saint-Etienne. He learned everything there was to learn about him then gradually drew him under his control using threats to my family and strongarm measures when his more charming methods wore thin. When my brother attempted to leave, tried to resist, Kvorjac left Saint-Etienne and went to Paris. He had my brother tortured and branded. Brainwashed. Kvorjac wanted him to be his and no-one elses. He took Olever to Douai where no-one knew either of them or their past. My brother may have stayed there for years, undiscovered but alive, but unfortunately soon after arriving there Kvorjac’s attention was drawn elsewhere, to another even more attractive target.”

“Aramis.” Porthos’ blood stopped frozen in his veins.

“When Kvorjac met Aramis he was transfixed. My brother said he would have pursued your friend on looks alone, without a care for his authority or his bearing, but when he learned he was a musketeer, when he heard him speak and understood his eloquence and charm, well, there was nothing he could do to deflect his attentions and save your friend.”

“Did that not liberate your brother? Give him some release from Kvorjac’s control?”

The man grimaced. “Alas, Kvorjac doesn’t let people go once his attentions lapse. He triggers everything he has spent years putting into place. Makes people self-destruct and basks in the carnage and aftermath. In Saint-Etienne, before his cruel games were revealed, he asked my brother to make a ring as a favour to him. Said he was going to gift it to the king from the Abbey. It was elaborate, technically brilliant and deadly as it turned out. My brother worked on it day and night for over a year during which time he became wary and scared of his mentor, and once done he had to be forced to present it to Kvorjac. When Olever became superfluous to Kvorjac’s needs in Douai, the ring was sent to a man of influence in Paris, Minister D’Aubray, purportedly as a gift, with a letter of appreciation written, signed and sealed by Olever.”

Abel picked up the ring and handed it to Athos. “Smell it.”

A faint scent of lavender could be detected. 

“There is a cavity inside. My mother loved lavender and grew it prolifically at our home. It made her so happy. My brother designed this ring to ever so slowly release the perfume and infused wool inside with lavender scent so I could always feel close to her.”

“Minster D’Aubray,” said Porthos. “I’ve met him. We spent one summer guarding him on an official visit he made to meet a Spanish emissary. He died of poisoning near six months ago.” 

“Ahh, yes,” said Abel sadly, “Unfortunately, the wool inside his ring was not infused with lavender. It contained Influence Powders, in this case white arsenic and sulphur, terrible, venomous poisons. The Minister had not bowed to Kvorjac’s demands but had enough soldiers around him to avoid himself or his family getting captured and tortured. He paid for his avoidance with a slow, terrible death, his stomach blackened and burnt from the inside as the ring seeped out its deadly vapours.”

“A man was beheaded for that murder,” murmured Athos. 

“My brother,” whispered Abel, putting the ring back on his shaking hand. “He confessed everything to me then broke away and ran off into the night. I searched for him until daylight but alas he was found by the gendarme late that morning, wrists slashed by his own hand but still alive. They took him straight to trial and I watched him die on the block the following week.” 

The musketeers sat, shocked and aghast, processing everything they had just learned and applying it to their beloved friend in Douai. 

Porthos spoke slowly, questions forming. “Aramis spoke many times of his stay in the monastery, but didn’t mention anyone threatening him. We went there when the Spanish tried to move munitions through the monastery, and found him. Father Jonas died trying to protest against the Spanish and nobody else tried to stop Aramis leaving when he decided to abandon his calling and return with us to Paris.”

“When D’Aubray’s murderer was hanged it was when we were fighting at the monastery,” pointed out Athos. Treville spoke of it as the King was annoyed we were not there to help manage the crowds. 

“D’Aubray’s murderer was Kvorjac and he was not the one who paid for the crime,” corrected Abel, anger in his voice. “My brother wept and told me that Kvorjac created him and he told him he would watch him in his final moments, so I know he was there as my brother knelt before Notre Dame, reciting the amende honourable before he lost his head. I searched and searched the crowd, trying to find the man, thinking it would be obvious to me who he was, but my father fainted and I had to tend to his needs. I didn’t ever find the man responsible for my brother’s execution. But I know Kvorjac was there.”

D’Artagnan allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. “And Aramis was back in Douai, suddenly realising that he wanted to return to Paris and be a musketeer after all. It must have come as quite a shock for Kvorjac to return to Douai and find his object of his intentions gone.” 

“Indeed,” said Abel, “but my brother said that Kvorjac plays the long game. He gathers information then reels people in and when the timing is right, he strikes back, using them, revelling in the influence he has over supposedly liberal-thinking, intelligent men. Your friend may not have noticed himself being a target when in Douai, but now he has been tortured and branded I fear he is no longer a free soul.”

“He will be as soon as we find him,” snarled Porthos, throwing a stone with considerable force across the stables. 

Athos thought for a while. “How does this Kvorjac find out all the intimate details about these men? Aramis is a man of secrets and he tells us little, even less sometimes about the things we need to know.”

The man gave a wry smile. “Kvorjac ingratiates himself. He puts himself in a position of benevolence then he listens. They are all pious men who feel drawn to the order and the need to purge their souls is overpowering. Your friend was no different from my brother and all the other gifted men who wish for absolution. He heard all their darkest secrets.”

“ _Mon Dieu!_ Confession! That’s how he knows about …!” D’Artagnan bit back any further speech at the look of warning from his companions.

An exhausted Abel stood then and solemnly shook each of their hands. “I wish I could help you more. My promise to my brother was that I would keep myself safe. I will move on again now and try to uphold that vow. I bid you well and I hope I have enlightened you, although not comforted you with my brother’s tale.”

“Be safe, my friend,” said Porthos, unable to help himself from standing and pulling the man in for a hug. 

Athos also wrapped his hand around the man’s neck. “Know that you have averted the loss of another innocent man. We will find him and when this monster screams for mercy at the end of our swords he will find none.”

Abel exhaled and nodded. “That is my fervent wish. Do not let my revelations be for nothing.”


	8. Determined and Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis has many burning questions. d'Artagnan has just one.

Before Aramis had time to think he opened his eyes. 

_Blinked._

Too late to retreat. 

_Panic._

He tried not to remember what he had to be panicked about. 

A hand rested on his shoulder as he attempted to rise. 

He shut his eyes. Gentle hands. No voices. This was what he needed to get back to the dark place of safety. 

“My son. Thank the Lord you are back with us.”

 _No, please don’t speak._

“Father, shall I bring him some food?”

“In time. He is still not yet present and ready. Go and fetch clean water for when he is inclined to drink.”

“Brother? Aramis?” The first voice said softly. “We pray for you my son. The Lord sees you hurting and will help you to find peace. Embrace him and let your soul rest until you are healed.”

Aramis held his breath, staying perfectly still. It would be easy to keep his eyes closed and pretend to sleep, but his body felt stiff and ached through lack of movement. He longed to stretch and roll on his side to ease his back which he had begun to realise was terribly sore. 

He exhaled, a sound which seemed alarmingly loud. 

Voices murmured, praises were made, a hand patted his leg, water was mentioned again.

Eyes opened, slits, checking the immediate area around him for anything which could be deemed dangerous. Not that he was in a position to do anything about it if he did spot a problem, but musketeer optimism about his abilities prevailed.

The optimism was definitely misplaced. Aramis ignored the men gathered around him and lunged for the cup of water being offered. 

‘Lunged’ was an ambitious term for it, as his hand barely managed to lift off the bed before it flopped back down and he gasped at the utter weakness of his body. 

“Here, shh. Let us help you.”

Someone held his head up. Another brought the cup to his mouth and patiently held it there as he indelicately sipped and slurped water into his parched mouth. 

Still assuming his health to be better than it actually was, Aramis attempted to stretch and emitted an embarrassing whimper for his effort. 

“Enough now, rest.” Hands held him back down as he tried to roll onto his side. “You are very weak, your body is recovering from severe injuries and the fever has only abated this past day. Drink water and when you are ready, eat little but often. You will build your strength back but it will take time. Patience is required, although I hear that is a quality you have always had to work towards.”

The last part was said with a smile and the reference of familiarity made Aramis look properly at the speaker for the first time.

The monk could almost be classed as elderly, although the sparkle in his eyes indicated an unwillingness to go too far down that path. Aramis didn’t recognise him, but looking past him to survey the room he immediately knew where he was. 

“I’ve been here … this room. Douai?”

“You have and it is.”

“How … when …..?”

Aramis shut his eyes to think. The pervading sense of fear and wrongness was stopping him from thinking things through. What was he doing in Douai? How had he got here? Where were his friends? 

At the thought of Porthos, Athos and D’Artagnan, Aramis hid his face under his elbow. Memories of the Queen, her watching him holding their son, feeling the baby’s little fingers grasping his thumb and he began to weep. Floods of emotions and anxieties came back to him. He couldn’t work out how he had ended up in the monastery in Douai being tended to by a strange monk, but he knew it came about after he had faced an avalanche of terror outside Paris. 

The wounds on his body and in his heart told him it wasn’t a dream. The memories of his body being tortured and wracked with pain were embedded in his mind and he knew he could never escape it. 

But he could save his friends. He could save all those that he loved. 

The last one who saw him alone. The faceless man. The hooded one who put a scolding hot iron on his back despite him screaming for mercy, branding him like cattle. He only spoke once, as burning flesh assaulted his senses. A whispered hiss as Aramis cried aloud to his saviour and lost consciousness. 

“You will recover physically from your trials. You will walk and talk and eat again. You will continue to charm and flatter and affect everyone you meet. But you will always remember that you are mine now. And the moment you forget that I will take everyone you love and I will have done to them as I have done to you. They will not be branded. That gift is not on offer I bestow lightly, or often. No, your loved ones will die slowly, agonisingly, one by one and I will make you watch as they take their last breaths.” 

 

\----------------------------

 

_“You’re a pansy sometimes, ya know? A big sook masquerading as a brave musketeer.”_

Aramis tried to open his eyes, which were puffy and stuck shut with tears, crusty and dried. 

_“You don’t fool me at all. Come here you.”_

He waited for the giant arms to be wrapped around him, ignoring his teary protests and reassuring him in deep baritone rumbles which rattled and tickled his ear that whatever it was that was wrong, would definitely soon be right.

There would be no protest now if Porthos offered comfort. If he heard his words for real and not just in his head, Aramis would relish them. 

He tried to move his left arm to lever himself up, taking care to avoid putting pressure on his broken wrist, which had been set and bandaged. His shoulder and ribs protested with a bolt of sharp pain, as the elbow stiffened but it was bearable. Just. That was a start. 

A quick glance told him he was alone. Good. The shuffling and soft padding of the monks coming in and out to tend to him would be of no comfort until he could figure out what part they played, exactly what was happening and how he came to be back here. 

Apart from a crudely woven blanket draped over his nether regions, Aramis was quite naked. Assessing his healing body was a sobering affair. He’d had bruises and been shot and had nicks and slices and stab wounds before of course but looking down at his body now he could see how thoroughly the torture had been done. 

The left knee was bandaged and looked twice the size of his right one, a nicely ageing green and yellow tinge creeping up around the dark marks on his leg where the bruise was maturing. 

It was hard to focus. He wiped his right eye and realised that it too was swollen. Wincing, he could feel the tenderness of his cheek and hoped there was no permanent damage. His right shoulder felt … wrong. He rolled it and regretted that action immediately. It had definitely had been dislocated recently, but as with his wrist, someone had reset it. 

Swinging his legs around to the side of the bed proved problematic, but not nearly as hard as sitting there finally and trying to resist the urge to flop back down to horizontal. Swooning, nausea and pain partying freely together, Aramis groaned and tried to settle himself. He could see some clothing, including a cassock folded neatly on a stone block the end of the bed. Getting to them was another thing and required more hurting, groaning and an ungainly slide to the cobbled floor before he could crawl and reach out to grab the garments. 

_“If only the ladies could see you now,”_ harrumphed the Porthos inside his head, _“I’d help but I’m enjoying your lack of finesse and delicacy and the way those flagstones you’re sitting on are freezing your crown jewels off.”_

Aramis swore, apologised to his holy surroundings, then swore some more, twice as vehemently, as he gave up on ever getting the trouser leg up over his knee or the shirt over his dodgy shoulder, finally settling just for the cassock. 

It was a start, he reminded Porthos, sending a wry glance skyward then wondering why he thought imaginary Porthos would be up there in the first place. 

Sucking in a rattled breath he heaved himself back up on to the bed and tried to remain upright. 

“Aramis! But how did you manage to … Brothers, quickly, help our friend.” 

Hands tried to lay him back down but the musketeer swatted them away and held his hands up. “No! Don’t … please, don’t. Leave me be. I cannot lay down any longer. Everything hurts now but it is just as unbearable when I lie.”

The elderly monk gestured for Aramis to be left alone, with a warning hand held up at the monks ensuring they knew they were on standby. Aramis felt the bed depress next to him and a hand was rested briefly on his arm. 

“It is good to see you able to dress and sit up but you are in no condition to move about. If you fall and we are not here to catch you, the stone floor will break more than your fall.”

“Are you stopping me from leaving here?” Aramis asked, an edge to his voice, staring at the hand on his arm as if it were an asp. 

The monk frowned, perplexed. “Your condition is stopping you from leaving here. As soon as you are healthy, you may go. But I do caution you that you are in no way ready to leave. Stay and take as much time as you need to recover, my son.”

“If I am indeed free to leave then I shall go now!”

Saying it was all very well. Doing it proved far more difficult. Barely able to push himself up to standing, Aramis ended up on the hard stone floor, legs buckled, wounds searing with pain at the strain. 

The monk tutted and summoned others to help him back onto the bed where he fell back down heavily to lying with a groan.

“I am told you had already come to the conclusion once before that your path in life does not wind back to this monastery. I have no intention of keeping you here, but for now you must take time to recover and heal your wounds.”

“How did I get here?” demanded Aramis. 

“We found you outside the gates. You were in a terrible state. At first the brothers thought you dead. Do you remember nothing?”

Aramis held back the rising panic as he remembered the torture, the threats, the pain. The feeling of terror as he was branded. After that …? He recalled very little. Pain, angry muffled words, being lifted, crying out, being unable to cry out from something being stuffed in his mouth. Choking, panic, movement causing indescribable agony. Blackness. _Nothing._

Someone patted his leg and Aramis flinched away, opening his eyes to see the old monk looking at him with not a little concern. 

“We will let you rest now. Alone and in peace. But know that we will return with more food and water and the supplies we need to tend your wounds. You were abandoned at our gate but we will not abandon you here. I was sent here to replace Father Jacob. My name is Father Gerard. He bent in and placed a gentle hand on Aramis’ brow and whispered, “I know things are amiss. Something terrible is happening. But you have sanctuary here as long as I breathe and the Lord gives me strength. Be at peace. I will help you.”

Aramis didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust anyone. But Father Gerard was good to his word. Nobody was allowed in to see Aramis without him being present. Nobody was allowed to tend to him without Father Gerard hovering nearby. Some of the Brothers were familiar. They each had their roles. Brother Francis brought the food. Brother Michael the water. Brother Wallace tended his wounds and did it well – just the way Aramis had taught him to during his previous time in Douai. Brother Sentis was unusually big and strong for a monk and could lift Aramis when needed. Which was usually when the timid young Brother Tames came in to change or rearrange the bedding.

Aramis kept his own counsel. He spoke little and never unless properly urged. Only Porthos over his shoulder kept his ear, urging him to stay alert, to not give up, to fight to recover when he really didn’t have the heart. But time, the bland but nourishing food, clean water, rest and basic medical attention did find him gaining strength of body, if not peace of mind. 

But despite the recovery of his body, Aramis could not shake the terror that rendered his heart and soul immobile. How could he ever escape the knowledge that with every decision, every action he made, he could be endangering everyone he cared about?

 

\-------------------

 

D’Artagnan leant over and tapped Athos on the arm, nodding ahead to where Porthos rode ahead, alone, head bowed, silent and reflective. 

“What can we do to improve his mood?”

“Find Aramis.”

“Well, yes, obviously, apart from that?”

Athos regarded the young musketeer with a grim expression. “The moments of levity you witness in Porthos will get fewer and farther between the longer Aramis is lost to us. 

“Porthos, he feels his loss more deeply?”

“Aramis is his light. Something fundamental has been extinguished.”

D’Artagnan thought about this simple but succinct assessment in silence, the steady clopping of the horses through the soft dirt the only sound accompanying them. He ventured to speak then held the words back, looking askance at Athos every now and then for the next few miles. 

“Out with it, boy. I am in no mood to read your mind.”

“Have they …. Aramis and Porthos ….” D’artagnan swallowed down his words then ventured again, “They are good friends. They seem close.”

Athos kept riding, none of his features breaking ranks. 

“I mean …. occasionally I’ve wondered. I’ve heard. About friends who …. and …” d’Artagnan’s words died on his lips when Athos turned and looked at him directly. 

“Have they ever lain together? Is that what you are asking?”

He just blushed, gulped and nodded. 

Athos stared at d'Artagnan for such a long time that the young musketeer had to avert his gaze. 

Eventually he spoke. 

“I don’t know. And I don’t know that I _would_ know even if they had.” 

“Ahh. I see. Of course." D'Artagnan was silent for a moment then ventured, "But like me, you have wondered?”

Athos merely made the tiniest incline of his head. 

“I may not fuss and postulate openly as my other friends are prone to do about each other but that does not mean I don’t care to know about their pursuits and activities if it could possibly affect their wellbeing.”

D’Artagnan digested that idea. 

“So … if they were ….”

“If they were and it had no ill effect on their lives or the lives of their friends then I can’t possibly see why either you or I would need to know any details.”

“So as long as they were discreet …”

“Boy, speculation and indiscretion are close acquaintances. We shall now, this moment, close the subject and simply accept that unless you and I are specifically told we shall never know. We are each different creatures. Each with our own faults and foibles and preferences. Loyal, but fallible when our weaknesses are tested.”

“Fine. I just always thought Aramis’ weakness was ladies.”

Athos made a noise and shook his head. 

“Aramis’ weakness is neither ladies nor men. It is confidence.”

“Confidence?” d’Artagnan was flummoxed. “But he is one of the most confident, arrogant people I’ve ever met.”

Another wry smile signalled on Athos’ lips. 

“You need to look deeper, much deeper to see the truth. Whereas Aramis _thinks_ he’s the best, Porthos and I _know_ we’re the best.”

“Is that not the same?”

Athos merely glanced at him, eyebrows lifted. 

“Our handsome friend can turn the heads of both sexes just by walking by. He can make knees tremble just by smiling. Half of Paris has either been bedded by him or is lined up to be. Yet Aramis still seeks more affirmation. Nothing is ever enough. He always needs more people to tell him he is beautiful, more people to want him, more people to shun him so he can pursue them and prove his worth.”

“But surely in other things – his shooting for example – he must realise that he is the best?”

“Oh he definitely is the best. But still he insists on pushing the boundaries. Making his shots late, almost too late, catching his target just as the opportunity is about to be lost, escaping out the second floor window just as the husband enters the bedroom. Testing, always testing. His conquests, his skills, my patience. Always challenging for more. He is a contradiction. Arrogant yet needy. Religious yet blasphemous. Outraging against injustices while creating injustices of his own. And sometimes that sets Aramis up nicely for a player on the lookout for a victim.”

“It’s so dangerous.”

“It’s so Aramis.”

D’Artagnan thought about it all for a moment. 

“Does he really doubt our friendship? Have reservations about how we feel about him?”

Athos sighed. “No, there is one thing he is absolutely certain about. Us. Our bond. Aramis was the one to befriend Porthos in the beginning when he was shunned by all others in the garrison. The one who badgered me tirelessly to join in, to participate, to try to form a bond with him and Porthos. So sure was he that we should be friends, so determined in his campaign, that I had no choice but to concede to his judgement in the end. To my great benefit. And now? Now he defends us all ferociously like a vicious polecat.”

Laughing at the description, d'Artagnan looked at Athos and smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll find him. You care deeply for Aramis too. I can tell because you have uttered more in these last few minutes than I’ve ever heard you speak in the last few years. ”

Athos raised an eyebrow and huffed in indignation then something caught his eye and he nodded ahead to where Porthos had stopped and was looking over his shoulder at them. 

“Enough chatter. Pick up the pace or we’ll never reach Douai.”

Porthos spurred his horse onwards without waiting for them. 

It occurred to d’Artagnan as he followed suit that Athos’ sudden verbal forthcomings were highlighted starkly now by Porthos’ long grim silences and reluctance to speak. 

Their world without Aramis had indeed gone mad. 

 

\---------------------

 

The next morning, in an unguarded moment, Aramis found himself lifting his hand up to the thin shaft of sunlight that crept in each day to annoy and tantalise him equally. He rolled his hand up into the light, searching for warmth, marvelling at the contrast between his dark, cold room and this small bright gift bringing promises from outside. 

“How silly I am,” chided Father Gerard. “Of course that’s what you need.”

Brother Sentis was summoned and lifted a protesting Aramis to his feet, then at Father Gerard’s direction he helped support Aramis and guide him through the monastery, down two flights of stone steps and out into the courtyard below. 

As Aramis was lowered onto a wide wooden stump, remnants of what had once been a tree of great girth, he bent double and gasped at the effort it had cost him to make the short journey. 

But then he sat up, stretched as far as his wounds would allow, and tipped his head back. 

Sunlight and warmth caressed his body for the first time in weeks. It soaked his pale skin, his spine quivering with shock as the tender heat coursed through him.

Aramis looked up, away from the cold stone walls, the dirt and mud and filth on the ground. Blue sky, clear, bright, unsullied, welcoming, promising. Birds flew overhead, strong yet free, floating and dipping agreeably, content to follow the sway of the breeze. 

He blinked. Consciously took a breath for the first time in … forever. Filled his lungs with something that felt like faith. 

Strong yet free. 

That was what he once was. What he wanted to be again. Not feeling trapped, cornered, afraid and nervous. 

Over his shoulder, Porthos was quiet. The advice had stopped. The gentle cajoling. Somehow, now, here, looking out, looking forward, there was no need to have a second opinion. 

The next day Aramis asked to go outside as soon as Father Gerard came into his room. After food and drink and the other necessities, his request was granted. Brother Sentis helped him down to the courtyard with an arm of support, then bowed to his superior and retreated, leaving the two men sitting silently in the sun, both with faces upturned like sunflowers, entreating the sun to embolden them with her rays. 

Sitting silently together in the sun became their routine for the next three days until finally Father Gerard broke the silence with a low murmur. 

“You have to leave here as soon as possible.”

Aramis turned to him in surprise. 

“Why?” he asked simply. 

“The stronger you get the more I feel Devil breathing on the back of my neck, wishing both of us ill will.”

“Who is it?” asked Aramis, the chill down his spine nothing to do with a cloud suddenly blocking out the sun. “Tell me.”

The Abbot shook his head. 

“Father Jacob warned me. The stirrings of evil clouded him while he was alive, even when you were first here. But now events are moving too quick to ignore the threat. You must leave or I fear you will never be able to escape.”

Aramis grabbed the Abbot by the arm. “Tell me! I need to know who is doing this!” 

But the Abbot refused, gently removing Aramis’ hand from his arm. 

“It is not up to me to precipitate the unfolding of any happenings. I beseech you now only because my conscience and my Lord urge me to help you.” He looked at Aramis for a moment, searching for something. “Brother Quintrell, do you remember him?” 

Frowning, Aramis nodded. 

“He was here briefly, when I first joined the order. But is he the one behind this?”

“Oh no my son. No. I knew Brother Quintrell during some of his time at the Abbey of Saint Etienne. A devout and talented man he was. But too open. Too trusting.”

“What of him then?” demanded Aramis impatiently, tempted to turn back to the sun as it broke past the errant cloud. 

“His brother, a man called Abel, called on me in Saint-Étienne, searching for him. He had no knowledge of him moving on to Douai. He seemed worried about … _influences._ Months later he called on me again, before my move here. Abel told me outrageous stories and I labelled him a fantasist, but even then I had heard tales – whispers – of political machinations within our church. Plots and deceits, blackmail and worse.”

Father Gerard took a deep breath. “I listened to him but I didn’t truly believe his tales until I came here. Even now I second guess them but I see you, I see the mark on your back and I remember that Brother Quintrell bore the same mark. He wore the same look of terror in his eyes. He was shrouded in the same veil of hopelessness.”

“Where is he? I must speak to him. See what he knows,” implored Aramis, squeezing the Abbot’s hand. 

“He left – disappeared – not long after you joined us. There were rumours. Allegations. Then his brother Abel sent word from Paris. Brother Quintrell was beheaded for the murder of Minster D’Aubray.”

“Murder?” Aramis was shocked. “Yes, I remember Minister D'Aubray was murdered. Poisoned. It was while I was here in Douai. How could Brother Quintrell possibly be linked to the Minister? Least of all want to murder him.”

“Abel said his brother was set up. To do the murder, to pay for it with his life. His life, his mind was not his own. I didn’t believe him but I know Brother Quintrell was no murderer and now that I feel the vile injustices lurking here again I would wish for you to be as far away from here as possible before the same fate befalls you." 

Father Gerard fumbled deep in the sleeve of his cassock and pulled out a piece of parchment. 

“A messenger came yesterday, bringing this note.” He looked around uneasily then passed it to Aramis. 

_‘Musketeers riding to Douai. Asking questions at Saint-Quentin. Beware. Determined and dangerous.’_

Aramis’ heart missed a beat and something akin to hope stirred in his chest. _Determined and dangerous_. He very much liked the sound of that. But he frowned. 

“Why would you, an Abbot, get a warning about musketeers?”

“It was not meant for me. It was for someone else here. You might say that the note went astray before it could reach its intended recipient.” Father Gerard wore a slightly guilty smile at the memory, then covered Aramis’ hand with his own and he looked at him earnestly. “I believe if you leave now you will meet your friends on the road. Head to Cambrai, then to Saint-Quentin. If you miss them then go to the Basilica and ask for Father Bernard. He knows nothing of this but is a good man and he will help you. Stay there until I can send them back to you.” He fumbled at a pocket in his cassock and drew out a small brown bag, coins chinking inside. “It will buy you food and shelter. Don’t take any risks, but accept help where possible, someone to tend your wounds, a ride on a cart, a bed for the night, fresh water. You are still very weak.” 

Father Gerard stood and offered Aramis his arm, helping him rise. 

“Walk with me. They can’t see us if we go around the back and there is a door at the rear of the garden which leads to the outer wall. You will find a cloak, a staff to help your balance, and a small amount of food and water. We don’t use it often but follow the track outside and it will lead you to the main thoroughfare. Head south and be inconspicuous.”

Aramis’ aching head was swimming with too much information. The enormity of it smothered his logic and he didn’t understand at all where he fitted into this, least of all why he had been chosen to be a part of it. 

_Determined and Dangerous._

He didn’t feel either. 

Scared, confused, weak, terrified. That was more fitting.

“There is something else.” 

Aramis realised that they had reached the gate. The Abbot was placing the thick, warm cloak over his shoulders. He lifted a small grey bag – no more than shabby cloth collected and tied at the top – and handed it to Aramis. On the ground, underneath where the bag had sat, was a pistol, unadorned and unmarked. 

“It works, so I’m told. One of the brothers loaded it for you and there are supplies for it in the bag. You have more need of it than me.” Father Gerard bowed his head and said a small prayer then put a hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “Have strength, my son. Your friends are coming and I am told they are formidable and not easily deterred. Go, be safe. Our Lord will protect you.” 

Aramis went to move away, then stopped, his back still to the Abbot. 

“Abel must have given you a name. I need to know it. Whoever plotted to get Brother Quintrell killed has tortured me body and soul. I am in the sorry state you see because of him. You owe it to me to give me a name.”

The Abbot lowered his head for a moment then said quietly, “Yes, you do have that right. I can only tell you the name Abel told me. He may be known by many other names.”

“Tell me the one you know.”

“Kvorjac.” 

 

\---------------------

 

He would just walk and someone would find him. Someone would save him. The Lord, the musketeers, someone. Faith would carry him to his friends, to Paris, to the garrison, to the safety of the life he knew. 

Adrenalin and sunshine seemed to spur him on, limping, sometimes staggering, holding his weight up with the staff more than he’d deemed necessary. The pistol was clutched in his other hand. It was the only thing that felt normal and right. No musketeer uniform, no horse, no hat, no friends …. Ahh, but that may change soon. And then ….

Aramis shivered and pulled the cowl of his cloak further over his head. He remembered the threats. The harm that would come to his friends if he defied his captor. The captor who now had a name. _Kvorjac_. And yet the sunshine, the words of the Abbot, the hope, the healing – surely the positives would prevail, his friends would conquer and protect him, his body and mind would heal and he would stop having to retreat back into the darkness?

_“You can do this, ‘Mis. Come and meet us then the first round at the tavern is yours.”_

Clutching the pistol tight, Aramis stumbled forward and gritted his teeth tight. 

“I’ll be with you soon, mon ami. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you concerned, this won't turn into an Aramis/Porthos slash fic, BUT I do feel that in the circumstances, d'Artagnan would be the one to wonder and perhaps ask the question. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for your comments and kudos - they really do make the effort worthwhile. I've written the ending of this fic already this week, so it's not going to be abandoned, but bear with me while I find time between working to get the next chapter written. Time is not my own!
> 
> I also have another new fic on the go, which I'll hopefully post up later today.


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